Th£    Fighting 
Troubador 

ARCHIBALD  CLAVERING  GUNTER.i 


BERTRAND  SMITH;! 
ACRES  OF  BOOKS 
I4O  PACIFIC  AVENUE 
LONO  BEACH.  CALIF, 


THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR 


A  &{pvel 


BY 

ARCHIBALD    CLAVERING    GUNTER 


Author  of 

'Mr.  Barnes  of  New  York,"    "Billy  Hamilton," 
"M.  S.  Bradford,  Special,"  Etc.,  Etc. 


NEW  YORK 

HURST  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1899, 

by 
A.  C.    GUNTER. 

All  rights  reserved. 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK    I. 

A  GIFT     OF    THE     BATTLEFIELD. 

TER  PAGR 

I.  The  fight  at  Chiari 5 

II.  The  pledge  of  the  living 14 

III.  Bianca  Gonzaga 24 

IV.  Eugene  de  Savoy 34 


BOOK   II. 

LA    PRINCESSA     MARIA. 

V.  An  ambassador  with  a  noose  round    his 

neck 46 

VI.  The  goatherd  comes  to  court 57 

VII.  The  lady  in  waiting 72 

VIII.  "  By  heaven,  that  is  her  voice!  " 84 

IX.  A  duet  under  the  sword  of  Damocles 94 

X.  The  signal  of  the  secret  passage 113 

XI.  Covers  for  twq,, , ,,,,,,,,,.  130. 

2061727 


CONTENTS. 

BOOK   III. 

THE     SINGING     GIRL     FROM     CREMONA. 

CHAPTER  PACK 

XII.    "  An  idea  worthy  of  Machiavelli  " 143 

XIII.  "  Morbleu,    you   are   a   fighting   trouba- 

dour!"    155 

XIV.  The  new  maid  of  honor 165 

XV.  The  midnight  duel 186 


BOOK   IV. 

A    WILD    NIGHT    IN    MIRANDOLA. 

XVI.  The  military  gauntlet  of  De  Vivans 206 

XVII.  Venus  and  the  troubadour 222 

XVIII.  Trapped  at  the  banquet 240 

XIX.  A  fighter,  but  no  more  a  troubadour 251 


The  Fighting  Troubadour. 

BOOK  I. 
A  GIFT  OF  THE  BATTLEFIELD. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  FIGHT  AT  CHIARI. 

"  Is  there  an  Englishman  within  the  sound  of  my 
voice?  " 

The  words  come  slowly  from  a  dying  officer,  gasped 
out  through  pale  and  dusty  lips,  as  the  surgeon  turns 
from  him  with  a  look  that  shows  the  patient  is  beyond 
his  skill.  Though  the  timbre  of  the  sufferer's  voice  is 
Saxon,  the  words  are  faltered  out  in  perfect  Italian. 

"  Would  you  not  like  a  priest  ?  "  whispers  the  sur- 
geon. 

"  No  priest  for  me  yet.  I  have  a  prior  duty.  It  is 
not  the  salvation  of  my  soul,  but  the  salvation  of  my 
daughter's  soul  that  racks  me,"  murmurs  the  wounded 
man,  who  lies  on  a  horse-blanket  which  has  been 
thrown  down  to  make  his  couch  a  little  in  the  rear  of 
the  long  ditch  of  Chiari  under  the  shade  of  some  olive 
trees,  a  few  which  have  been  cut  down  by  artillery 


6  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

fire,  one  or  two  of  their  trunks  even  now  showing  fresh 
blood  upon  them,  for  the  throng  of  battle  has  only 
drifted  away  from  the  place  a  short  five  minutes. 

"  For  the  love  of  Heaven,  is  there  an  Englishman 
within  the  sound  of  my  voice?  " 

This  time  the  words  are  spoken  in  the  Anglo-Saxon 
tongue,  and  cried  out  with  a  despairing  intensity  that 
makes  them  in  their  sharpness  heard  over  the  distant 
cheer  of  victory  from  the  Imperial  dragoons,  who  are 
now  cutting  down  the  French  rear  guard  retreating  on 
Urago;  and  the  soft  flow  of  the  little  River  Transana. 

This  having  dashed  torrent-like  from  the  mount- 
ains on  its  way  to  the  Oglio,  has  now  become  as 
gentle,  and  warm  as  the  Italian  summer  sun,  which 
tinges  its  ripples  with  silver  as  they  lave  the  level 
meadows  to  the  right  of  the  little  village  of  Chiari, 
where  this  7th  day  of  September,  in  the  year  of 
our  Lord  seventeen  hundred  and  one,  Prince  Eugene 
of  Savoy,  in  behalf  of  his  Emperor,  Leopold  of  Austria, 
has  just  smitten  the  French  in  a  pitched  battle — and 
smitten  them  awfully.  For  Christendom,  by  the  glori- 
ous victory  of  Prince  Eugene  over  the  Turks  at  Zenta 
some  three  years  before,  having  been  relieved  from 
fear  of  that  awful  jack-in-the-box  of  the  Seventeenth 
and  Eighteenth  Centuries,  the  all-conquering  Otto- 
man, its  paladins  could  set  their  lances  in  rest  against 
each  other  in  that  fifteen  years  of  butchery  called  the 
War  of  the  Spanish  Succession. 

The  strident  tones  of  the  dying  man's  voice  are  an- 
swered suddenly  and  sonorously. 

"  I  am  an  Englishman !  "  says  a  young  officer,  the 
long  hair  of  whose  carefully  curled  peruke,  well  lac- 
quered high  jack-boots,  immaculate  lace  ruffles,  and 
cuffs  of  Venice  point,  though  they  are  frayed  by  the 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  7 

rents  and  covered  with  the  blood  and  dust  of  battle, 
show  him  to  be  a  dandy  as  well  as  soldier. 

With  these  words,  striding  from  a  group  of  the 
officers  of  Staremberg's  infantry  and  one  or  two  sab- 
reurs  of  Palfi's  horse,  the  young  man  bends  over  the 
dying,  and  his  deep  voice  grows  tender  as  he  whispers  : 
"  Comrade,  what  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  Sir  Andrew  Vesey,  of  Wilton  Manor,  Berks," 
falters  the  wounded  man. 

"  Yes,  I  recognize  you  now ;  volunteer  aide-de-camp 
on  Prince  Eugene's  staff.  I'm  the  Honorable  Sydney 
Rawdon  Villiers,  Captain-Lieutenant  in  the  regiment 
of  Commerci,  of  the  County  of  Somerset,  volunteer 
from  My  Lord  Ormand's  regiment  of  foot  guards  for 
this  campaign  in  Italy  by  permission  of  our  gracious 
King  William." 

"  Then,  as  you  are  my  countryman,"  gasps  the  dy- 
ing baronet,  "  I  make  you  the  guardian  of  all  I  hold 
dear." 

"  What's  that?  "  asks  the  other,  astounded,  for  as  the 
words  are  spoken  they  seem  to  proclaim  a  sacred  trust. 

"  My  daughter !  " 

At  this  there  is  a  jeering  guffaw  from  one  or  two 
nearby  rough  riding  officers  of  the  regiment  of  Com- 
merci. One,  a  big  whiskered  Pandour,  jeers :  "  Sa- 
pristi,  you  give  your  girl  to  this  boyf  " 

For  the  appearance  of  Villiers,  as  the  sun  shines  on 
him  through  a  rift  in  the  drifting  cannon  smoke,  is 
that  of  a  youth  who  has  scarce  left  his  mother's  apron 
strings.  His  face  is  like  a  Cupid's  and  he  is  scarce  six 
inches  over  five  feet  high  in  his  cavalry  boots. 

Another,  a  veteran  captain  of  Palfi's  horse,  with  seri- 
ous voice,  says  warningly :  "  Have  a  care,  dying  man. 
Beware  what  you  do," 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

For  though  he  looks  as  innocent  as  an  Adonis, 
young  Villiers's  reputation,  even  in  the  hard-drinking, 
hard-playing,  women  loving  army  of  Italy,  is  as  it 
was  in  London  town,  that  of  a  man  to  whom  his  Satanic 
Majesty  would  be  loathe  to  trust  his  daughter,  a  roue 
of  the  Haymarket,  a  roisterer  of  St.  James,  an  aris- 
tocratic military  Mohawk,  who  curled  his  adolescent 
moustachios  to  capture  beauty  in  every  looted  town. 

But  something  in  the  young  Islander's  eyes  checks 
the  laugh  of  the  Imperial  officers.  He  says  shortly : 
"  Major  Guttenberg,  you  think  me  a  boy  of  eighteen. 
True,  I  have  a  boy's  love  for  wine  and  woman,  and 
sometimes  dicing,  but  in  serious  affairs  I  am  a  man  of 
honor,  an  officer  of  twenty-eight,  who  has  already 
crossed  swords  in  two  bloody  wars.  This  gentleman 
may  trust  his  daughter  to  me  as  safely  as  if  I  were  a 
bishop.  My  answer  is  for  the  others  as  well  as  you.  It 
any  of  you  are  not  pleased  with  it,  you  know  my  regi- 
ment. At  present  I  have  weighty  affairs  upon  my 
mind." 

He  turns  to  the  dying  man,  whose  face  at  these 
words  has  grown  very  wistful ;  his  voice  rings  true  and 
Saxon  as  he  answers :  "  As  living  Englishman  to  dy- 
ing Englishman,  I  accept  your  trust."  And  Sir  An- 
drew Vesey,  turning  his  glazing  eyes  upon  this  boyish 
officer,  knows  he  has  found  in  his  extremity  the  man 
he  wants. 

Even  with  the  pains  of  dissolution  upon  him,  a  sigh 
of  happiness  ripples  out  from  beneath  his  grizzled 
moustache. 

But  the  other  goes  hurriedly  on :  "I  fear  you  have 
little  time.  Tell  me,  where  is  your  daughter.  Tell  me 
why  it  is  she  needs  my  guardianship — I  who  am  here 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  9 

in  Italy,  when  she  is  doubtless  in  a  gentle  English 
home." 

"Ay  de  mi,  if  she  were!  "  whispers  the  dying  man. 
"  She  is  here,  also,  in  Italy.  Listen  to  me  before  my 
voice  grows  too  weak.  I  came  here  to  save  her.  In 
my  travels  in  Italy — eighteen  years  ago — I  met  her 
mother,  a  fair  Italian  lady  of  gentle  blood,  but  no 
fortune.  I  loved  her.  Our  marriage,  a  true  one  by  the 
Church,  was  secret,  for  I  was  a  cadet  of  my  family 
then  and  feared  being  cut  off  from  the  fortune  that  has 
since  come  to  me  with  my  title.  Called  to  England  on 
this  business  two  years  ago,  I  left  my  wife  in  Cremona, 
the  leeches  saying  the  climate,  fogs,  and  cold  of  our 
Island  would  be  too  powerful  for  her  delicate  health. 
With  her,  of  course,  remained  my  daughter,  at  that 
time  but  fifteen.  The  English  business  finished  to  my 
satisfaction,  the  title  assumed  by  me,  I  was  ready  to 
return  to  my  wife  and  offspring,  when  news  came  to 
me  by  a  packet  delayed  three  months  in  the  irregular 
posts  of  Europe,  stating  my  wife,  Lady  Vesey,  was 
dying.  Then  afterward  another  packet  told  me  that 
she  had  passed  away  and  left  my  daughter  alone,  un- 
protected, in  the  great  Italian  city.  I  was  already  en 
route  when  this  trouble  of  the  Spanish  Succession, 
between  England  allied  with  the  Emperor,  and  France 
and  Spain,  which  holds  Cremona,  began.  If  I  jour- 
neyed to  Cremona,  I,  the  subject  of  King  William, 
would  become  the  prisoner  of  His  Majesty  Louis  XIV. 
With  that  I  turned  to  England's  allies.  Eugene  of 
Savoy  had  beaten  the  all-conquering  Ottoman.  Why 
should  he  not  make  Jean  Jacques,  the  frog  eater,  turn 
his  back.  With  Prince  Eugene  I  would  visit  Cre- 
mona when  he  conquered  it  and  save  my  daughter. 
But  now  you  must  do  this  for  me.  Save  her !  My  little 


10  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

Lucy !  My  God,  that  is  a  cannon  shot !  Are  the 
French  returning?  " 

"  No,  the  enemy  are  still  retreating,"  whispers  the 
other.  "  But  your  story  ?  " 

"  You  will  find  the  details  in  my  valise  and  dispatch 
box.  The  keys  are  beneath  my  cuirass.  They  will 
take  it  off  when  I  die.  Go  to  Cremona  and  save  my 
daughter." 

"  Why  should  you  fear  for  her?  " 

"  She  has  a  voice  as  beautiful  as  an  angel.  It  has 
been  cultivated  till  she  sings  as  if  she  were  the  mis- 
tress of  the  art  of  Euterpe.  Word  has  been  brought  to 
me  that,  desiring  to  profit  by  it,  a  damned  Italian 
maestro  of  music  is  plotting  to  put  her  upon  the  stage 
to  sing  in  the  accursed  opera,  which  will  debase  her 
forever.  You  know  how  lightly  we  think  of  player- 
women  in  England.  But  it  is  considered  even  more 
degrading  in  Italy.  You  know  the  French  law : 
'  Courtezans,  actresses,  singing  women  and  other 
vagabonds.' "  He  quotes  in  despairing  sneer  the  old 
Gallic  police  edict  which  made  every  prima  donna 
one  of  Hetaira.  "  You  know  in  Italy  the  divas  of  the 
theater  are  considered  but  the  prostitutes  of  the  rich 
and  titled.  Save  a  gentle  English  girl  from  a  pollution 
such  as  would  come  to  her  in  the  slums  and  purlieus 
of  London.  For  that  is  what  it  means.  She  may  be 
great  upon  the  stage,  but  she  is  forever  cut  off  from 
her  rank.  She  receives  the  plaudits  of  the  throng,  but 
also  its  contempt.  She  can  no  more  marry  a  gentle- 
man. It  is  a  degradation  to  the  blood  of  the  Veseys 
and  the  Howards,  my  cousins,  for  she  is  my  own  legit- 
imate daughter,  my  heart  and  love.  Keep  her  from 
becoming  one  of  the  vagabonds  of  this  world." 

Listening  to  him,  Sydney  Villiers  knows  this  man's 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  11 

words  are  true.  Once  upon  the  stage,  the  girl  will 
have  the  brand  of  shame  upon  her;  for  in  those  days 
in  Latin  countries  the  ladies  of  the  stage,  dramatic  or 
musical,  were  considered  as  already  accursed ;  living, 
they  could  not  mate  with  gentlemen  save  as  their 
harlots ;  dead,  they  could  not  be  buried  in  consecrated 
ground,  nor  even  in  their  dying  moments  have  the 
consolations  of  the  Church. 

"  I  promise  to  save  her  as  though  she  were  my  own 
sister,"  answers  the  young  man  solemnly,  and  makes 
the  sign  of  the  cross. 

Noting  this,  the  father  smiles  and  gasps :  "  You 
are  a  Catholic  ?  " 

"  Yes !  " 

"  Then  remember,  as  you  are  a  Catholic  !  And " 

He  calls  to  two  or  three  surrounding  officers,  and 
falters :  "  Write  on  that  drumhead.  Quick,  while  I 
have  time !  " 

Then  he  dictates  a  few  words  which  make  Sydney 
Rawdon  Villiers,  of  the  County  of  Somerset,  England, 
Captain  in  the  regiment  of  Commerci's  horse,  guard- 
ian of  the  person  of  his  daughter,  Lucia  Marianna 
Vesey,  and  trustee  of  the  fortune  he  is  leaving,  for  her 
sole  benefit  and  use. 

"  Let  me  write  one  line  to  her,  that  she  may  know 
you ! " 

Sydney  supporting  the  dying  man,  he  scrawls  a  few 
words  to  his  daughter  and  signs  it  with  trembling  hand. 
Gazing  at  this,  Villiers  reads :  "  The  gentleman  who 
brings  you  this  is  Captain  Sydney  Villiers.  Obey  and 
trust  him.  Andrew  Vesey." 

The  whole  thing  is  done  in  four  short  minutes,  a 
few  spent  bullets  falling  around  them,  though  the 
battle  has  drifted  from  them  toward  the  north. 


12  THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

Vesey  having  signed  his  name  to  it  and  it  being  at- 
tested by  Captain  D'Arcy  Macdonnel,  of  the  Dietrich- 
stein  Regiment  of  Dragoons,  and  Colonel  Paul  Diak, 
of  the  Hussars,  the  dying  man,  with  a  sigh  of  relief, 
speaks  again : 

"  Captain  Villiers,  take  this  signet  ring.  She  will 
know  you  are  my  agent  by  it."  His  voice  is  so  low  it 
can  scarce  be  heard.  "  As  you  do  to  her,  may  God  do 
to  you." 

"  Amen !  " 

Then  suddenly  a  spasm  convulses  the  dying  man's 
face.  He  mutters :  "  I  would  tell  you  of " 

"  Yes?  "  The  young  man  places  his  ear  close  to  the 
pale  lips,  for  the  roar  of  battle  is  growing  louder 
again. 

But  the  dying  man's  voice  is  drowned  by  a  salvo  of 
cannon,  and  the  cry  is :  "  The  French  return !  "  For 
Marechal  de  Villeroy  is  not  going  to  let  his  first  pitched 
battle  with  Eugene  go  against  him  without  another 
desperate  attempt  to  retrieve  the  fallen  fortunes  of  his 
master,  Louis  XIV.  Therefore  he  has  rallied  his  in- 
fantry and  is  trying  to  retrieve  the  day  with  them  alone, 
though  the  tramp  of  horse  further  up  the  valley  shows 
his  cavalry  is  not  far  behind  him. 

"  All  officers  to  their  posts !  "  cries  Prince  Eugene, 
riding  up  at  the  head  of  his  staff.  With  him  is  Prince 
Commerci.  These  able  commanders  make  quick  dis- 
position to  repel  an  assault  that  they  know  the  French 
Marechal  will  be  unable  to  repeat,  for  Villeroy's  losses 
this  day  have  been  enormous.  He  has  been  entrapped 
into  attacking  perhaps  the  most  brilliant  captain  of  his 
age,  backed  by  a  small  veteran  army  in  an  intrenched 
position,  its  left  shielded  by  the  little  Venetian  citadel 
of  Chiari,  seized  by  Prince  Eugene  for  the  occasion 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  13 

from  the  neutral  Republic;  its  right  flanked  by  two 
little  rivers,  the  Transana  and  the  Bajona,  and  its  front 
protected  by  an  irrigation  ditch  called  La  Ceriola. 
The  Imperial  infantry  in  solid  formation  line  the  ditch, 
and  do  not  give  fire  until  the  unfortunate  French  have 
marched  up  almost  to  the  muzzles  of  their  guns.  Then 
the  musketry  of  twenty-four  battalions  and  the  dis- 
charge of  fifty  pieces  of  cannon  loaded  with  bullets 
mow  down  the  unfortunate  brigades  of  Normandy  and 
Auvergne,  and  as  they  give  way  the  Cuirassiers  of 
Commerci  and  Vaubonne's  Dragoons,  cantering 
around  the  flanks  betwixt  the  ditch  and  the  little 
River  Transana  by  column  of  squadrons,  deploy  and 
charge  the  flank  of  the  retreating  French  infantry,  cut- 
ting down  some  eight  hundred  of  them. 

With  the  horse  of  Commerci,  heading  his  squadron, 
rides  Sydney  Villiers. 

Gazing  after  him,  the  dying  man  gasps :  "  By  the 
love  of  the  Virgin,  come  back  and  listen  to  me !  "  then 
prays :  "  Dear  Lady  of  Mercy,  permit  me  to  warn  him 
of  St.  Croix."  An  agony  comes  upon  his  face.  "  Gas- 
parin  St.  Croix,  the  fiend  of  subtle  mind,  who  will  cir- 
cumvent him  and — and — ah,  Dio  !  the  woman " 

With  these  words  the  English  officer  turns  his  face 
away  from  the  dusty  leaves  of  the  pale  green  olive  trees 
and  shades  his  eyes  from  the  sun  that  is  now  growing 
black  to  him,  as  if  a  greater  despair  than  that  of  dissolu- 
tion had  stricken  him.  And  so,  amid  crashing  shots 
and  the  rattle  of  platoon  firing  and  the  clash  of  cavalry 
— for  now  the  troopers  of  the  French  have  been 
brought  up  to  save  their  beaten  infantry — Sir  Andrew 
Vesey  dies. 

While  Villiers,  who  has  had  a  greater  danger  thrust 
Upon  him  by  this  sacred  trust  than  even  that  of  battle< 


14  THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

charges  at  the  head  of  his  squadron,  striking  at  the 
sabers  and  lances  of  opposing  horsemen,  and  in  the 
lust  of  carnage,  combat,  and  blood,  forgets  that  upon 
his  life  now  hangs  the  safety  of  another — that  of  a 
hapless  English  girl,  alone  in  the  great  but  licentious 
city  of  Cremona,  surrounded  by  a  country  in  which 
Gaul  and  German  and  Slav  and  Iberian  and  the  mer- 
cenary soldiers  of  all  races  are  doing  battle  with  a  bar- 
barism almost  medieval. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  PLEDGE  OF  THE  LIVING. 

The  sun  had  set  on  the  defeat  of  the  French  at  Chiari, 
that  pitched  battle,  the  first  of  many  which  were  to  de- 
cide whether  Italy  should  be  French  or  Austrian  for  a 
century — the  Italians,  as  usual  in  those  good  old  days/ 
having  naught  to  say  about  it. 

For  the  last  three  centuries,  whenever  France,  Spain, 
and  Austria  had  crossed  swords,  they  had  done  most 
of  their  fighting  on  the  convenient  soil  of  Italy,  a  pleas- 
ant arena  for  their  valiant  men  of  arms,  where  besides 
much  butchering  of  foe  there  was  grand  foraging  of  its 
fair  grain  fields,  fine  looting  of  treasure  from  its  mer- 
chant princes  and  retail  hucksters,  and  in  addition  the 
loving  of  beautiful  Italian  women  of  all  ranks  and  con- 
ditions, with  sanction  of  the  Church  or  without  sanc- 
tion of  the  Church,  as  circumstances  suggested. 

Therefore,  imbued  with  that  cunning  which  came 
from  an  excessive  timidity  handed  down  to  them  from 
the  legends  Q'f  their  stricken  forefathers  and.  recorded 


THE   FIGHTING  TkOUBADOUR.  IS 

by  the  ruins  of  many  fair  places,  the  inhabitants  of  the 
fertile  Lombardian  plains  and  the  rich  Venetian  mead- 
ows, with  their  many  broad  principalities,  great  cities, 
and  flourishing  villages,  had  been  waiting  to  see 
which  side  would  win,  in  order  to  jump  to  it,  embrace 
it,  and  swear  they  loved  it,  in  the  hope  of  saving  for 
themselves  a  moiety  of  the  blood  in  their  veins,  a  little 
of  the  goods  and  chattels  in  their  warehouses,  some 
few  of  the  ducats  in  their  purses,  and  a  slight  per- 
centage of  the  virtue  of  the  women  of  their  firesides. 

Whether  it  was  France  and  Spain,  or  whether  it  was 
Austria  and  England,  whose  cause  most  of  the  small 
Italian  principalities  should  espouse,  would  be  pretty 
accurately  settled  by  the  issue  of  the  first  decisive  bat- 
tle. True,  the  poor  non-combatants  might  jump 
wrong,  but  it  was  better  to  be  in  one  fire  than  between 
two. 

One  State  had  already  jumped  too  soon.  The  un- 
fortunate Duke  of  Mantua,  urged  by  his  minister  and 
frightened  by  the  threats  of  Louis  XIV.,  had  admitted 
a  French  garrison  not  only  to  his  capital,  but  to  his 
citadel,  on  a  promise  of  some  four  hundred  and  odd 
thousand  crowns  per  year.  But  no  payments  being 
made,  and  the  French  proving  themselves  very  over- 
bearing guests,  the  unfortunate  duke  had,  in  his  de- 
spair, attempted  to  stab  his  prime  minister,  who  was 
happy  to  escape  with  his  life  from  his  beloved  prince, 
whom  he  had  betrayed. 

So  the  rest  of  Italy,  frightened  by  the  ill  fate  of 
Mantua,  had  stood  waiting  to  see  whether  they  should 
hoist  the  double-eagle  of  Austria  or  the  lilies  of 
France. 

Aware  of  this  fact,  some  months  before  Eugene  had 
cunningly  contrived  that  at  the  first  point  of  impact  his 


16  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

forces  would  outnumber  those  of  his  adversary,  Mare- 
chal  Catinat.  Immediately  after  his  brilliant  march 
through  the  Tyrolean  Alps  he  had  struck  the  French 
Marechal's  lieutenant,  the  Count  de  Tesse,  at  Carpi 
on  the  Adigio,  and  crushed  him. 

After  the  defeat  of  his  advanced  division,  Catinat 
had  rapidly  retreated  to  the  line  of  the  Mincio,  for  the 
French  commander  knew  that  his  soldiers  were  by  no 
means  beloved  by  the  Italian  peasantry,  and  feared  that 
their  long  scythes,  in  case  his  whole  army  was  routed, 
would  avenge  the  outrages  they  had  suffered  from  his 
troops. 

Upon  the  Mincio,  protected  by  the  impregnable 
fortress  of  Mantua,  which  has  never  yet  yielded  to 
direct  assault,  though  it  has  sometimes  succumbed  to 
famine  and  capitulation,  Catinat  had  made  fresh  dis- 
positions to  resist  the  advance  of  the  Imperialists  until 
the  Marechal  de  Villeroy,  lately  appointed  by  Louis 
XIV.  to  the  command  in  Italy,  could  join  him  with  re- 
inforcements from  Milan. 

But  Eugene  was  not  a  commander  to  wait  until  the 
French  had  grown  more  powerful.  He  had,  therefore, 
after  some  brilliant  maneuvering,  crossed  the  Mincio 
just  below  where  it  issues  from  the  Lake  di  Garda  at 
Pischiera. 

Catinat,  still  fearing  to  meet  him,  had  fled  across  the 
Oglio.  Here  he  had  been  joined  by  his  chief,  De  Vil- 
leroy, who  brought  with  him  reinforcements,  making 
the  French  army  vastly  more  numerous  than  the  bat- 
talions of  the  Emperor. 

Finding  himself  outnumbered,  Eugene  had  taken 
post  at  Chiari  to  protect  the  blockade  of  Mantua  that 
he  had  already  begun.  To  inveigle  the  French  mare- 
chal  to  attack  this  entrenched  place,  the  Austrian  com- 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  17 

mander  had  caused,  by  means  of  his  spies  and  emis- 
saries, De  Villeroy  to  think  there  were  but  six  hun- 
dred Imperial  troops  in  the  village,  when  his  whole 
army  was  concealed  in  the  ditch  to  the  right  of  it. 

In  his  truculent  way  the  marechal  of  Louis  XIV. 
had  attempted  to  rush  the  country  houses  and  the 
town,  when  to  his  dismay  the  unfortunate  French 
found  each  casino  filled  with  veteran  Imperial  troops, 
each  orchard  wall  crennelled  for  musketry  and  each 
terrace  crowned  by  a  field-piece  belching  fire  and 
death. 

Therefore,  beaten  back  with  a  loss  of  gome  four 
thousand  killed  and  wounded,  De  Villeroy  during  this 
night  was  hurriedly  retreating  toward  the  Oglio. 

Not  wishing  to  press  a  desperate  foe  whose  troops 
unemployed  in  the  battle  outnumbered  his  worn-out 
veterans  in  a  ratio  of  two  to  one,  Eugene  had  quietly 
pitched  his  camp  upon  the  field  he  had  just  won. 

Consequently,  this  evening,  seated  quite  easily  in  a 
small  mud  hut  on  the  outskirts  of  Chiari,  which,  is, 
however,  fitted  up  somewhat  more  pretentiously  than 
is  usual  with  officers  of  his  rank,  the  young  English 
captain  of  Commerci's  horse  is  taking  inventory  of  the 
effects  of  his  dead  compatriot,  over  whose  body  the 
funeral  volleys  have  not  long  been  fired. 

These  effects  have  just  been  brought  to  him  by  the 
two  body  servants  of  the  late  baronet.  The  elder,  one 
Giovanni  Umberto,  a  burly  Neapolitan,  who  speaks, 
in  addition  to  the  patois  of  Southern  Italy,  a  smat- 
tering of  both  French  and  German,  seems  to  imag- 
ine that  his  placid  carcass  goes  with  the  rest  of  his  late 
master's  goods  and  chattels ;  as  he,  after  delivering 
Sir  Andrew's  luggage,  has  abstractedly  eaten  up  what 
provender  he  can  lay  his  hands  upon,  then  quietly 


1 8  THfc  FIGHTING  tROUBADOUR. 

rolled  himself  in  a  horse  blanket  and  gone  to  sleep  un- 
der a  mulberry  tree  just  outside  Villiers's  hut. 

The  other  is  a  dwarfish  Lombardian  lad,  whose  big, 
.bright  searching  eyes  have  a  frightened  expression  in 
them,  and  whose  voice  is  soft  as  that  of  a  lute's  strings 
as  he  answers  a  few  queries  of  Captain  Villiers  in  a 
diffident,  pathetic  tone.  Being  dismissed,  he  wanders 
off  with  an  aimless,  dejected  air  toward  a  blazing  camp- 
fire,  over  which  some  of  the  troopers  of  Commerci's 
regiment  are  cooking  their  suppers  with  much  jest 
and  merriment,  their  losses  in  this  day's  combat  hav- 
ing been  but  slight,  the  enemy's  very  heavy. 

Somehow  as  he  gazes  after  him  the  dwarf  seems  to 
be  familiar  to  the  English  officer.  He  would  call  him 
back  and  question  him  further,  but  the  effects  of  Sir 
Andrew  Vesey  demand  his  immediate  attention. 

These  consist  only  of  the  usual  impedimenta  of  an 
officer  upon  a  hard-fighting  and  hard-riding  campaign, 
together  with  a  small  strongly  bound  and  well-secured 
valise,  as  well  as  a  heavy  black  dispatch  box.  The  keys 
of  these  have  been  delivered  to  Sydney  Villiers  upon 
his  return  from  the  last  charge  upon  the  French,  who 
have  not  fled  until  they  have  left  eight  hundred  dead 
upon  that  little  road  that  borders  the  banks  of  the  softly 
flowing  Transana. 

Notwithstanding  the  hard  fought  battle  of  the  day, 
the  athletic  Englishman,  who  is  perhaps  twenty-eight 
years  of  age,  seems  scarcely  fatigued,  and  goes  to  work 
inspecting  the  property  given  into  his  hand  with  con- 
siderable vim,  a  great  deal  of  curiosity,  and  toward  the 
close  of  his  investigation  a  kind  of  horrified  amaze- 
ment. 

The  contents  of  the  valise  are  soon  glanced  through 
by  the  flicker  of  a  tallow-dip  cemented  to  an  empty 


THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  19 

shot  case  by  some  of  its  own  melted  grease.  They  are 
mostly  correspondence  between  the  dead  gentleman 
and  his  Italian  wife,  a  Tuscan  lady,  by  name  Emelia 
Fiorentina  di  Castiglione,  whose  relatives  have  ap- 
parently entirely  passed  away  in  one  of  those  san- 
guinary little  feuds  between  her  native  town  of  Siena 
and  its  neighbor,  Lucca. 

The  English  baronet's  love  for  his  wife  seems  to 
have  been  sincere.  The  affection  of  his  lady  ap- 
pears to  have  been  as  warm  as  the  sun  under  which 
she  lived.  The  letters  of  the  last  year  of  her  life,  during 
her  husband's  absence  in  his  native  country,  are  chiefly 
filled  with  accounts  of  the  beauty  of  their  daughter, 
Lucy  Marianna,  whom  the  Italian  lady  calls  Lucia ; 
also  praises  of  the  girl's  wondrously  developing  voice 
and  marvelous  aptitude  in  the  art  of  la  mise  de  voix  as 
taught  in  those  days  most  excellently  in  Italy. 

One  or  two  of  the  last  letters,  however,  give  Villiers 
some  hints  of  the  cause  of  the  dead  man's  fears.  They 
speak  of  a  certain  Giacomo  Pasquale,  who  has  a  small 
school  of  music  in  the  Contrada  Galla,  a  street  near  the 
Porto  Margherita,  Cremona,  and  his  sister,  la  Sig- 
norina  Tessa,  who  teaches  the  art  of  the  ballet,  sending 
even  some  of  her  more  advanced  pupils  to  the  great 
theaters  of  Venice  and  Milan  to  show  their  capers  on 
their  boards.  They  tell  of  the  Italian  maestro's  ex- 
treme anxiety  to  place  the  child  Lucia  upon  the  stage 
of  the  opera  even  at  her  early  age  of  sixteen. 

This  has  been  sternly  refused  by  the  dying  Italian 
lady,  even  in  her  final  sickness;  one  of  her  last  letters 
ending  with  "  Signor  Giacomo  has  claimed,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  money  to  pay  the  bills  for  his  instruction,  to 
cause  our  daughter  to  be  bound  unto  him,  to  make 
himself  her  f>a^rone^sQ  as  tQ  receive  back  from  her  earn^ 


20  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

ings  the  moneys  he  claims  untruly  that  he  has  ex- 
pended. With  the  sums  demanded  from  me  by  the 
leeches  for  attendance  in  my  sickness,  I  am  at  my  last 
scudo.  Should  you  fail  to  get  remittance  to  me  by  means 
of  our  friend,  Signor  St.  Croix,  who  has  taken  this  mat- 
ter in  his  hands,  I  know  not,  in  case  of  my  death,  what 
will  become  of  our  dear  child.  Therefore  I  pray,  as 
you  love  me,  you  will  hasten  to  me  as  well  as  forward 
money,  which  may  travel  with  greater  rapidity  than 
you  can  in  the  present  distressed  state  of  the  country." 

The  last  letter  of  the  series  is  very  short,  and  ap- 
parently written  in  rapidly  declining  health.  It  con- 
veys the  farewell  love  and  kisses  of  the  dying  mother 
to  the  father,  who  is  now  dead  also. 

An  entry  in  Sir  Andrew  Vesey's  handwriting  in  a 
financial  memorandum  book  shows  he  has  forwarded 
one  year  before,  through  this  same  St.  Croix,  who 
seems  to  be  a  silversmith  and  banker  of  Cremona,  a 
sum  of  five  thousand  crowns.  This  has  apparently 
never  been  received  by  the  lady  for  whom  it  was  in- 
tended. 

"  Can  there  be  a  villain  in  this  matter?"  cogitates 
Villiers.  "An  Italian  villain?  Tis  quite  the  usual 
thing  in  five-act  tragedies."  Then  the  thought  of  his 
task  coming  to  him,  he  laughs  rather  jeeringly :  "  This 
is  a  curious  game  for  you,  my  hell  rake ;  you  who  with- 
in the  year  have  had  many  a  roistering  with  Bill  Con- 
greve,  the  playwright,  and  young  Colley  Cibber,  the 
actor,  who  have  brought  to  your  notice  the  prettiest 
jades  of  the  London  boards;  the  comely  Selby,  who 
even  now  is  playing  Miss  Prue  in  Bill's  chef  d'ceuvre, 
'  Love  for  Love/  and  has  half  the  town  running  after 
her  meretricious  witcheries ;  likewise  little  Peggy  Cole- 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  21 

man,  whose  fascinating  shape  has  caused  me  to  look 
upon  the  strumpet  with  amorous  complacency." 

Then  his  tone  becomes  determined,  a  new  light 
comes  into  his  eyes,  the  good  heart  of  the  man  brushes 
away  frivolity  of  youth,  and  he  mutters :  "  I  have 
given  word  to  dying  man  and  shall  keep  my  pledge, 
as  truly  as  if  I  were  a  psalm-singing  Covenanter  or  a 
praise-God  Puritan — ay,  better  perhaps !  We  Villiers 
have  loved  women  from  the  day  our  race  began,  often 
well  enough  to  die  for  them ;  vide  my  great  uncle, 
who  fell  under  the  assassin's  knife  for  love  of  Anne  of 
Austria." 

With  this  complacent  compliment  to  a  nobleman 
who  could  equal  Rochester  himself  in  debauchery  and 
Charles  II.  in  fickleness,  the  young  captain  re- 
turns to  his  work.  Seeing  a  few  letters  tied  with  a 
blue  ribbon  and  written  in  flowing  Italian  girlish  char- 
acters, he  murmurs  :  "  From  my  ward."  For  a  mo- 
ment delicacy  makes  him  hesitate  to  read  them. 
Suddenly  he  cogitates:  "I  know  too  little;  I  should 
know  all,"  and  proceeds  to  his  task. 

This  labor  now  seems  to  him  more  pleasant,  for 
these  letters  are  the  fresh  outpourings  of  a  young  and 
noble  soul  to  the  man  she  thinks  she  can  trust  most 
upon  this  earth,  her  father.  They  suggest  a  girl's  un- 
formed mind  that  is  gradually,  letter  by  letter,  as  she 
approaches  maturity,  growing  more  beautiful,  though 
their  naivete  shows  she  knows  as  yet  but  little  of  the 
selfish  world  about  her. 

Many  of  the  epistles  are  filled  with  remarks  as  to 
the  girl's  improvement  in  the  divine  art  of  singing ; 
how  the  Maestro  Pasquale  has  taught  her  the  proper 
position  of  her  voice,  so  that  each  note  now  flows  with- 
out effort  through  the  larynx ;  how  she  has  been  per- 


21  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

mitted  to  practice  nothing  but  the  chromatic  and  dia- 
tonic scales,  with  trills,  chords,  appogiaturas,  and  pas- 
sages of  vocalization  of  different  kinds.  "  It  is  exer- 
cise !  exercise !  exercise !  "  she  writes.  "  I  have  sung 
naught  else  for  four  long  years.  When  I  have  sung 
these  same  exercises  for  two  more  weary  years,  to- 
gether with  some  added  phrases  of  articulation  and 
pronunciation,  my  maestro  says  I  shall  be  the  first 
singer  in  Italy."* 

"  The  two  years  are  already  past,"  laughs  the  young 
man.  "  Egad,  now  Signorina  Lucia  must  be  the  first 
singer  in  Italy."  There  is  a  jeer  on  his  face,  though 
he  adds  quite  seriously :  "  If  her  report  is  true  I  have 
but  little  time." 

Save  a  number  of  financial  memoranda  and  some 
legal  documents  connected  with  the  English  property 
of  Sir  Andrew  Vesey,  these  are  all  the  papers  the  valise 
contains.  Sydney  now  turns  to  the  dispatch  box. 
Opening  it,  he  finds  its  contents  are  more  pertinent, 
yet  more  astounding. 

The  first  thing  he  takes  from  it  is  a  miniature.  Two 
words  written  upon  the  case  show  it  is  the  portrait  of 
the  daughter  forwarded  by  her  mother  to  gladden 
her  father's  absence. 

Removing  its  cover,  the  Englishman's  eyes  grow 
bright  with  admiration.  The  picture  is  that  of  a  girl 
whose  figure  is  just  budding  into  womanhood  under 
the  sun  of  maturing  Italy.  He  is  gazing  upon  a  face 
like  the  one  Guido  Reni  painted  of  the  dying  Beatrice 
Cenci,  though  there  are  no  tears  behind  its  eyes,  which 
are  bright,  laughing,  radiant.  The  forehead,  like  that 
of  most  beautiful  women,  is  broad  and  low,  showing 

*  This  was  almost  exactly  the  method  taken  by  the  Maestro  Porpora  with 
Cafferelli. and  he  was  admitted  to  be  the  greatest  singer  in  Italy  in  the  early 
eighteenth  century,  his  only  acknowledged  rival  being  Farinelli. — ED. 


THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  23 

that  sentiment  dominates  reason.  The  nose  is  slightly 
retrousse,  giving  to  the  countenance  a  piquancy  that 
would  not  otherwise  be  possible  in  outlines  which, 
aside  from  this,  are  almost  classical  in  their  Athenian 
beauty.  The  eyes  are  hazel,  the  hair  chestnut,  the  skin 
of  ivory,  as  shown  by  the  rounded  neck  and  nascent 
bosom  which  rise  above  the  light  gauzy  robe  thrown 
about  the  figure  according  to  the  easy  method  of 
Italian  painters  of  that  day,  neglige  effects  stolen  from 
them  by  the  English  school  of  Sir  Peter  Lely. 

The  whole  is  a  smiling,  talking,  living  girl,  whose 
lips,  red  as  cherries,  seem  opening  to  show  not  only 
teeth  that  are  pearls,  but  to  let  the  soft  voice  of  happy 
maidenhood  issue  to  the  air;  for  this  miniature  has 
been  paintd  by  Jacopo  Giovanni,  the  last  of  the  great 
Venetian  school,  an  artist  who  has  not  lost  the  subtle 
arts  of  color  and  lights  of  Tintoretto  and  Correggio. 

Gazing  on  this,  even  the  self-contained  Saxon  ex- 
claims :  "  By  Cupid,  what  loveliness !  "  Then  think- 
ing of  the  gentle  English  blood  flowing  in  her  veins, 
and  remembering  his  oath  to  the  dead  man,  he  mut- 
ters :  "  They  would  degrade  this  goddess  into  a  sing-, 
ing  baud  of  an  open-air  Italian  theater.  Not  by  this 
sword  arm  !  'Tis  the  pledge  of  the  living  to  the  dead." 

From  now  on  a  strange,  restless  intensity  seems  to 
come  into  the  young  man's  actions,  and  a  firm  resolu- 
tion into  his  beating  heart  that  make  him  capable  of 
things  that  the  Sydney  Villiers  of  yesterday,  though  a 
gallant  warrior  and  a  bold  lover,  had  scarce  essayed. 


24  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

CHAPTER  III. 

BIANCA  GONZAGA. 

He  is  about  to  put  the  dispatch  box  aside,  as  these 
letters,  some  I.  O.  U.'s  of  the  officer's  gaming  table, 
and  a  few  rouleaux  of  Austrian  gold  and  English 
guineas  are  the  last  of  its  contents,  when,  lured  by  the 
loveliness  of  the  portrait,  Sydney  takes  just  one  more 
glance  at  it. 

Immediately  something  familiar  in  the  face  seems 
to  strike  the  young  man.  He  mutters  :  "  In  childhood 
all  other  features  change  more  completely  than  the 
eyes,"  and  gazes  at  the  beautiful  face  of  Lucia  Vesey 
intently. 

As  he  looks  a  startled  expression  flies  over  his  coun- 
tenance. These  hazel  orbs  take  him  into  another 
world.  The  present  becomes  the  past  of  seven  years 
before.  The  dingy  walls  of  his  mud  hut  turn  to  an 
island  of  exquisite  beauty,  that  little  islet  called  Isold 
Bella  because  it  is  the  fairest  of  all  in  that  lake,  whose 
vine-clad  hills  and  olive  groves  run  down  the  mount- 
ain sides  to  water  cold  as  the  streams  of  the  Swiss 
glaciers  that  make  its  depths,  that  lake  whose  marvel- 
ous beauty  is  half  that  of  the  snowy  Alps  and  half  that 
of  sunny  Italy — the  Lago  Maggiore. 

He  remembers  how  he  had  been  sent  to  receive  his 
education  in  Rome,  where  his  family  had  hoped  he 
might  enter  the  priesthood,  for  they  were  intensely 
Catholic,  and  had  thoughts  that  their  power  and  in- 
fluence in  the  end  might  assist  him  to  the  red  cap  of  a 
cardinal,  though  the  young  man's  preference  had  al- 
ways been  for  the  sword  instead  of  the  censer. 

Having  given  up  all  thoughts  of  entering  holy  or- 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  2$ 

ders,  he  had,  as  he  returned  to  England,  taken  a  tour 
of  Northern  Italy.  There  had  come  upon  him  one 
summer  his  first  romance,  the  one  he  thought,  as  most 
youths  do,  would  be  the  love  of  his  life.  In  the  smiles 
of  a  beautiful  Italian  woman  he  had  dreamed  away  two 
months  of  amorous  happiness. 

As  is  quite  usual  in  such  cases,  the  lady  was  slightly 
older  than  the  gentleman.  Taught  by  the  experience 
of  her  twenty-two  years  in  the  gay  courts  of  Mantua 
and  Milan,  the  lady  Bianca  had  lured  the  English 
youth  of  twenty  just  out  of  school  to  think  he  loved  her, 
until  one  day  his  blissful  dream  of  her  truth  to  him 
had  been  destroyed  by  the  artless  prattle  of  a  little 
child.  The  occurrence — he  can  never  forget  it — ran 
this  way: 

One  bright  morning,  in  the  year  sixteen  hundred 
and  ninety-four,  he  and  the  lady  of  his  love  had  jour- 
neyed down  the  Lago  Maggiore  in  a  sailboat  manned 
by  three  stout  fishermen  from  Cannero,  whose  already 
crumbling  castles  were  gazed  shudderingly  upon  by 
their  boatmen,  who  remembered  the  legends  of  some 
two  hundred  years  before  when  the  celebrated  Maz- 
zarda,  inland  pirates,  had  held  the  lake  at  their  mercy 
and  ravaged  its  fair  shores  with  fire  and  sword. 

But  this  happy  morning  the  English  youth  and  the 
lady  of  his  heart  cared  little  for  the  stories  of  the  past, 
being  wrapped  up  in  the  love  of  the  present.  They  had 
only  become  acquainted  at  Locarno,  higher  up  the 
lake,  some  eight  weeks  before,  where  Bianca  had  fled 
to  escape  the  dangers  of  the  warring  hosts  on  the  lower 
plains  of  Piedmont,  the  Emperor  of  Austria  and  the 
King  of  France,  each  jealous  of  the  other's  power,  hav- 
ing gone  to  fighting  again. 

So  that  morning  Sydney  Rawdon  Villiers  and  his 


26  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

sweetheart  had  sailed  over  eleven  miles  of  the  sunlit 
lake,  whose  waters  were  just  rippled  by  the  cool 
breezes  coming  down  the  St.  Gothard  and  Splugen 
passes,  till  they  reached  the  show  spot  of  this  most 
beautiful  sheet  of  water — Isold  Bella — that  fairy  island 
in  the  fairy  bay,  into  which  empties  the  flashing  tor- 
rent of  the  Tosa.  Upon  this  islet  Count  Vatalio  Bor- 
remeo  had  some  few  years  before  completed  his  ex- 
quisite chateau,  the  beautiful  gardens  of  which  rose 
terrace  upon  terrace  from  the  lake  to  the  graceful 
building  that  seemed  to  crown  the  lemon  and  orange 
groves  and  the  magnolias,  cypresses,  and  oleanders 
that  were  mixed  with  the  cedars  and  laurels  of  the 
north. 

This  little  island,  made  supremely  beautiful  by  nature, 
had  been  adorned  by  the  wealth  of  its  owner,  at  that 
time  the  richest  nobleman  in  Piedmont.  Beyond  it  rose, 
out  of  the  blue  waters,  the  Isles  del  Pescatore  and  La 
Madre ;  one  covered  with  lemon  groves,  the  other 
made  picturesque  by  the  drying  nets  and  white  cot- 
tages of  its  fishermen. 

Across  the  blue  water,  scarce  two  miles  beyond, 
were  slopes  covered  with  vines  and  olives,  backed  by 
the  soft  purple-tinted  mountains  of  Northern  Italy. 
Dominating  these  in  the  far  distance  loomed  the  snow- 
capped peaks  that  top  the  Simplon  pass — a  back- 
ground of  perpetual  winter  and  snow  and  ice,  a  fore- 
ground, of  almost  perennial  summer  and  living  waters, 
through  which  the  fish  flashed  sometimes  even  be- 
neath the  branches  of  the  orange  trees  that  in  this  al- 
most enchanted  island  sometimes  sweep  over  the 
lake. 

"  I  can't  see,  mi  carissima,"  said  the  young  man, 
"  how  you  should  have  demurred  to  come  to  this  islet, 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  2  7 

though,  of  course,  you  no  more  knew  of  its  beauties 
than  I  did.  Still,  if  Count  Vatalio  is  hospitable  we 
might  remain  a  day  or  two.  This  fairy  spot  would  be 
as  proper  setting  to  our  love  as  were  the  gardens  of 
Boccaccio  to  the  amourettes  of  Florence." 

He  does  not  note  that  the  lady  shivers  a  little  at  his 
words,  though  the  day  is  balmy  and  the  sun  would  be 
burning  were  it  not  for  the  soft  breeze. 

"  No,  rather  let  us  go  upon  our  way,  Rawdon," 
Bianca  had  remarked.  For  the  young  man  had  with 
some  tact  kept  his  family  name  from  the  lady  of  his 
amour,  and  was  only  known  to  her  as  Sydney  Rawdon. 
To  this  she  adds,  a  curious  tremor  in  her  sensuous 
voice :  "  You  say  your  affairs  call  you  to  England. 
I  long  to  see  your  country,  my  Sydney."  These  words 
were  emphasized  with  a  look  from  her  great  dark  eyes 
that  made  a  rapture  in  her  gallant's  heart. 

"  Within  a  month,  by  God's  blessing,  dear  one,  I'll 
show  you  London  town,"  answered  the  young  man. 

"  Ah,  there  we  can  never  fear  pursuit,"  murmured 
the  lady. 

"  I  fear  no  pursuit !  No  one  shall  tear  you  from 
me !  "  cries  the  youth,  his  tone  tremulous  with  the 
anxiety  of  first  love,  but  his  eyes  ablaze  with  the  fierce- 
ness of  a  young  animal  who  will  not  be  robbed  of  its 
mate. 

For  the  two  had  thought  to  take  the  Simplon  route 
over  the  Alps  and  so  journey  through  France  to  Eng- 
land, these  countries  at  that  time  being  at  peace  with 
one  another;  as  the  lady  has  admitted  to  Sydney  that 
she  has  a  husband  to  whom  she  had  been  wed  in  early 
youth  but  whom  she  had  never  loved.  At  all 
events,  she  adores  her  English  gallant  now.  As  she 
looks  upon  his  manly  bearing  and  foreign  airs  with  the 


28  THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

liquid  eyes  of  Italian  passion,  her  white  hand,  flying 
from  the  laces  of  her  long-sleeved  Venetian  bodice, 
clutches  his  fervidly,  as  if  she  feared  to  lose  him. 

The  Italian  boatmen  are  forward  tending  to  furl- 
ing the  sails  of  their  little  craft;  the  gentleman  is 
comely,  and  the  lady  in  her  mobile,  passionate  face  and 
her  lithe,  supple  but  exquisitely  rounded  figure  is  of  a 
vivacious  loveliness  that  has  made  her  celebrated  in 
all  Northern  Italy,  a  beauty  that  once  seen  is  scarce 
forgotten. 

The  mainsail  of  the  craft,  which  is  swung  amid- 
ships, gives  privacy.  The  two  are  in  each  other's  arms 
with  burning  kisses  and  words  of  love. 

"  Mi  carissima !  " 

"  Adorato  mio !  " 

"  We'll  stay  here  scarce  half  an  hour,  dear  one,  just 
to  put  foot  on  this  enchanted  spot ;  then  cross  the  bay 
to  Pallanza.  From  there  post  horses,  and  in  a  week  we 
have  crossed  the  Alps,  and  are  far  from  the  pursuit  that 
makes  your  tender  heart  tremble  for  me,  though  I  fear 
not  your  husband  or  his  bravos." 

"  My  husband  and  his  bravos? "  echoes  the  lady. 
"  Why,  do  you  think  he  is  powerful  enough  for  that?  " 

"  Certainly.  You  have  not  told  me ;  but  I  know  he 
must  be  of  some  noble  family.  Your  signet  ring  bears 
the  arms  of  Mantua." 

"  Ah,  I  had  forgotten,"  Bianca  half  laughs.  "  But 
when  across  the  Alps  I  will  tell  you.  Now  let  us  land 
as  you  decree  it.  You  shall  see  the  beauties  of  the 
island ;  I  will  remain  upon  the  shore." 

"  You  don't  care  to  visit  the  chateau  and  stroll  over 
these  enchanted  terraces?" 

"  No,  this  spot  is  beautiful  enough  for  me.    Besides 


THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  29 

I  am  fatigued.  Last  night,  thinking  of  you,  my  Raw- 
don,  I  slept  but  little." 

"  Bianca !  " 

"  Sydney! " 

They  are  in  each  other's  arms  again. 

"  Since  it  makes  your  mind  easier,  my  sweetheart, 
I  will  not  linger,"  adds  the  young  man  to  his  last 
caress.  Then,  as  the  boat  slowly  drifts  toward  the 
shore,  he  bursts  into  song — his  high  tenor  voice  ring- 
ing out  in  a  soft  Venetian  barcarole,  which  tells  of  the 
love  of  gondoliers.  He  sings  it  with  the  execution  of 
a  master.  What  youth  could  have  lived  in  Italy  in 
those  days  of  song  and  not  learned  the  art  of  melody ! 

To  this  suddenly  Bianca  cries :  "  Listen,  Trouba- 
dour! You  have  a  rival."  For  the  Venetian  air  is 
taken  up  from  the  shore,  which  is  now  scarce  fifty  feet 
away,  and  echoed  back  to  them,  in  the  voice  of  a 
little  girl  that  is  so  freshly  sweet  that  Sydney  laughs : 
"  A  rival,  did  you  say,  Bianca.  Per  Bacco,  a  conqueror! 
Not  even  in  the  Sistine  Chapel  have  I  heard  more 
exquisite  notes.  Let  us  see  who  the  prima  donna  is," 
he  adds.  "  Then  I'll  run  over  the  island  and  return  to 
you  in  half  an  hour.  Here,  jump  on  shore,  my  treas- 
ure ! " 

His  strong  arms  lift  the  delicate  yet  voluptuous  form 
of  his  lady  love  to  the  little  rocky  landing ;  and  doubt- 
less, after  a  glance  at  the  gardens  of  Count  Vatalio 
Borremeo,  the  two  would  have  gone  merrily  on  their 
way  to  England,  did  not  a  lovely  little  girl  of  about 
ten  years,  who  is  seated  in  a  skiff  that  has  been 
drawn  ashore  and  is  splashing  with  her  bare  white 
feet  and  pretty  little  legs  the  blue  waters  of  the  lake, 
stop  her  song  and  cry  suddenly  in  the  same  divine 
voice :  "  Hola !  Come  again,  beautiful  lady ! "  Then 


30  THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

springing  up,  she  throws  a  lot  of  lilac  flowers  and 
oleanders  upon  the  object  of  Sydney's  passion,  making 
her  for  the  moment  queen  of  flowers. 

But  Bianca  seems  to  shrink  from  this  kindly  recep- 
tion, and  turns  away,  murmuring :  "  Little  one,  you 
are  mistaken.  You  do  not  know  me." 

"  Oh,  don't  I.  I  know  you  well.  Three  months  ago 
you  lived  at  the  palace  up  there !  "  The  child  points  to 
the  chateau,  and  cries  excitedly :  "  Everyone,  even 
Turn  Turn,  my  dwarf,  and  he's  a  fool,  said  the  great 
count  loved  you." 

"  Child,  you  tell  fairy  tales,"  half  laughs  Bianca. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  don't !  And  three  weeks  ago,  while 
the  count  was  here,  you  came  again  and  stayed  two 
days.  I  saw  you." 

"  My  God,  the  days  you  said  were  spent  at  Arona 
with  your  brother  on  leave  from  the  Austrian  army," 
shudders  the  Englishman,  his  face  growing  drawn  and 
white. 

But  not  heeding  him,  the  lady  cries  to  the  girl: 
"  Imp,  you  rave !  " 

"  Oh,  no,  I  don't.  I  couldn't  forget  such  beautiful 
eyes  as  yours.  I've  seen  you  twenty  times.  You  are 
the  Lady  Bianca  Gonzaga.  You  know  me,  too — I  can 
see  it  in  your  flashing  eyes.  I  live  with  my  papa  and 
mamma  in  that  pretty  villa  at  Baveno,  only  a  mile  or 
two  on  the  other  shore.  Papa  says  you  are  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  Italy.  Mamma  says  you're  the 
worst." 

"  Basta !  "  breaks  forth  madame.  "  You  miserable 
child,  you're  lying.  I'll  call  your  governante  and  have 
you  whipped." 

w  Diavolo !    J  (inn *t  fear  my  governante.    T'ITI  half 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  31 

English,  I  am ;  and  can  smack  myself !  Papa  has 
taught  me  fisticuffs  !  " 

"  Then  I'll  teach  you  to  keep  your  babbling  tongue 
still  myself!  "  cries  the  lady,  whose  eyes  are  glowing, 
for  she  knows  the  child's  words  have  reached  the  man 
in  all  the  world  she  wants  least  to  hear  them.  She 
has  seized  the  little  girl  with  one  fair  hand  and  has 
uplifted  a  white  arm  as  lovely  as  that  of  Juno. 

But  it  never  falls.  Her  wrist  is  caught  by  the  Eng- 
lish gentleman,  who  says,  coldly :  "  You  needn't  strike 
the  child  for  telling  the  truth." 

"  For  tetiing  the  truth  ?  By  the  Virgin !  she's  the 
most  unblushing " 

"  Nonsense  ?  She  has  told  the  truth.  I  know  you 
now.  You  are  Bianca  Gonzaga,  who  styles  herself  La 
Marchesa  di  Monteferrato,  but  is  known  about  here 
as  the  mistress  of  Count  Borremeo,  the  richest  noble 
in  Piedmont  or  Lombardy.  I  suppose  his  gold " 

But  the  woman  interrupts  him  with  a  shudder. 
"  Don't  insult  me  by  saying  I  love  aught  but  you,"  she 
whispers.  "  Rawdon,  think  how  I  have  adored  you. 
Remember  how  tender  I  have  been  with  you;  how 
obedient  to  yotir  wMms,  I  who  have  been  wont  to 
command.  Forgive  me,  though  I  have  been  the  mis- 
tress of  Borremeo,  I  am  now  only — yours." 

"  You  are  not  my  mistress  now!  " 

"  Gran  Dio!    what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  I  could  pardon  your  having  been  the  wife, 
but  cannot  pardon  your  having  been  the  mistress  of 
another,"  answers  the  young  man,  with  that  cruel 
jealous  sentimentality  only  possible  to  adolescence. 
"  Besides,"  lie  sneers,  "  I  have  heard  other  gentlemen 
have  been  honored  with  your  charms.  I  might  share 
my  bone  with  one  dog,  but  not  with  half  a  dozen." 


32  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

"  My  heaven,  you  are  not  going  to  discard  me !  " 
screams  the  lady,  her  face  growing  white  with  misery, 
her  hands  clenching  themselves  in  her  agony.  Then 
tossing  pride  away,  for  she  loves  him  well  enough 
for  that,  she  begs :  "  Sydney,  think  how  meek  I  have 
been  to  your  slightest  wishes.  Remember  that  my 
passion  for  you  is  the  love  of  my  life ;  that  if  you  leave 
me  my  heart  dies." 

Her  glorious  orbs  gaze  into  his,  she  says  proudly : 
"  Look  into  my  eyes !  They  tell  the  truth !  " 

And  so  they  do.  For  Bianca  Gonzaga  is  a  woman 
who  loves  most  what  she  loses ;  and  at  this  moment  she 
is  true  as  steel  to  this  handsome  cavalier  who  is  turning 
from  her. 

But  he,  lashing  himself  into  a  passionate  fury,  says, 
with  a  shudder :  "  I  love  you  so,  I  dare  not !  " 

"  Why  not?    You  kissed  them  but  a  minute  since  !  " 

"  Because  then  I  would  forgive  you." 

"  Then  look  in  them  quick,  Sydney !  "  she  begs. 
"  Look  in  them,  mi  carissimo,"  and  her  arms  go  round 
his  neck,  their  rounded  curves  reminding  him  of  the 
beauties  that  but  this  morning  he  had  thought  the 
greatest  gift  this  earth  had  given  him. 

Her  lips  would  cling  to  his,  but  with  a  moaning 
shiver  he  breaks  her  clinging  hold  of  him  and  springs 
into  the  boat.  Desperate,  he  signals  the  men  to  push 
off  before  her  caresses  shall  make  him  weak.  Though 
she  would  follow  him,  he  with  a  boathook  hastens  the 
speed  of  the  little  craft.  He  waves  her  off,  and  cries : 
"  Go  back  to  Borremeo,  whom  you  deserted  for  me !  " 
then  screams  to  her :  "  Wretch,  don't  throw  the  child 
in — the  water  is  fifty  fathoms  deep !  " 

For  Bianca  no  more  pays  attention  to  him ;  she  has 
seized  the  chick  who  has  looked  on  affrighted  at  the 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  33 

result  of  her  disclosure.  Raising  the  little  girl  on  high, 
she  would  dash  her  into  the  water,  were  not  her  arms 
stayed  by  a  dwarfish  boy,  who,  springing  from  a  neigh- 
boring orange  tree  where  he  has  been  stealing  fruit, 
flies  at  Bianca  and  fights  her  like  a  cat. 

The  next  second  a  man  has  run  down  to  the  shore 
and  plucked  the  child  from  her,  shouting  out  sturdy 
English  curses. 

Then  she,  looking  at  him  and  at  the  little  one,  says, 
in  awful  voice:  "  Remember,  girl,  remember!  For 
this,  Corpo  di  San  Marco,  I'll  make  your  life  the  most 
unhappy  on  this  earth!  " 

When  Sydney  Villiers,  seven  years  ago,  had  sailed 
over  the  blue  waters  of  Lago  di  Maggiore,  he  heard  for 
the  last  time  the  sweet  voice  of  Bianca  Gonzaga  ut- 
tering this  cruel  oath. 

As  this  flashes  through  his  mind,  the  present  comes 
back  to  the  English  officer.  He  is  once  more  in  the 
mud  hut  on  the  stricken  field  of  Chiari.  He  holds  the 
dead  Englishman's  papers  in  his  hands,  and  remem- 
bers that  Vesey  was  the  man  who  came  down  and 
saved  the  child  and  cursed  the  woman.  He  glances 
at  the  miniature  and  knows  that  these  eyes  that  look 
at  him  are  the  eyes  of  the  little  girl  who  saved  him  from 
an  unworthy  love.  He  knows  now  why  the  dwarf 
seemed  familiar  to  him.  He  remembers  even  the  creat- 
ure's name,  Turn  Turn,  as  he  heard  it  by  the  side  of 
Lake  Maggiore. 

This  makes  him  knit  his  brow.  He  ponders :  "  If 
Bianca  guessed  my  ward's  strait,  what  an  oppor- 
tunity for  her  revenge."  Then  he  suddenly  falters : 
"  Bianca  Gonzaga,  doubtless  by  her  arts  and  beauty, 
she  has  power  with  every  officer  of  Louis  XIV.  in 
Italy."  With  this  comes  the  sequential  thought :  "  By 


$4  THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

heaven !  she  may  be  the  mover  in  the  threatened  degra- 
dation of  the  daughter  of  Sir  Andrew  Vesey.  'Twould 
be  like  her.  Her  wits  are  as  bright  as  her  eyes.  Dio 
mio,  this  makes  my  task  more  desperate." 

Pondering  on  this,  the  young  man  mutters  gloom- 
ily: "  The  army  of  France  stands  in  array  between  me 
and  this  girl  in  Cremona,  whom  I  have  promised  the 
dead  to  save.  Her  enemies  are  beside  her;  I  am  far 
away !  But,  by  the  blessing  of  God,  my  oath  I  still  keep ! 
'Tis  a  custom  of  my  family.  I  suppose  it  will  be  my 
death,  but  we  Villiers  have  a  kind  of  habit  of  dying  for 
the  sweet  lips  and  bright  eyes  of  woman." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

EUGENE  DE  SAVOY. 

With  these  thoughts  in  his  mind,  Sydney  paces  the 
mud  of  his  tent,  passing  his  hand  in  a  kind  of  help- 
less abstraction  through  the  long  curls  of  his  flowing 
wig,  during  which  he  determines  to  question  the 
dwarf,  Turn  Turn. 

This  is  suddenly  broken  in  upon  by  an  orderly  rid- 
ing up,  springing  off  his  horse,  saluting,  and  saying: 
"  Captain  Villiers,  His  Highness,  Prince  Eugene,  de- 
sires your  attendance  at  once." 

"  Where  are  the  headquarters  ?  " 

"  In  a  casino  just  outside  the  moat  of  the  main  bas- 
tion of  Chiari.  I  was  directed  to  guide  you  there," 
answers  the  trooper. 

Twenty  minutes  afterward,  Captain  Villiers  is 
ushered  by  a  member  of  the  staff  into  a  pretty  little 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  35 

country  house,  which,  though  somewhat  dismantled 
by  cannon  shot,  is  occupied  by  the  Imperial  gener- 
alissimo as  his  headquarters. 

Saluting,  he  stands  looking  at  the  most  successful 
commander  Austria  has  ever  had,  who,  though  of 
French  birth,  together  with  Marlborough,  nearly 
brought  the  dynasty  of  Louis  XIV.  to  ruin. 

At  this  time  Eugene  has  scarce  entered  upon  his 
career  of  glory.  As  a  general  officer  he  has  served 
in  the  Italian  campaigns  of  a  few  years  before,  in  com- 
mand of  a  cavalry  division.  Since  then  he  has  elec- 
trified Europe  as  well  as  saved  it  by  his  crushing  de- 
feat of  the  Ottomans  in  the  tremendous  battle  of  Zenta. 

His  face  would  be  stern  were  it  not  for  the  happy 
smile  of  victory  upon  it,  and  classic,  were  his  nose, 
which  is  large  like  that  of  most  great  men,  not  so 
prominent.  His  eyes  are  dark,  his  mouth  determined 
but  flexible,  his  lips  in  repose  being  generally  parted 
in  a  curious  kind  of  half  smile.  He  is  habited  in  the 
glistening  body  armor  of  his  day.  Around  his  neck 
he  wears  the  insignia  of  that  great  order  of  Austrian 
chivalry,  the  Golden  Fleece.  This  is  his  only  orna- 
ment, and  one  forgets  its  foppishness  in  looking  at  his 
high  jack-boots  covered  with  the  mud  of  Italian 
ditches  that  during  this  hot  September  evening  has 
become  hard  caked,  though  it  fills  the  room  with 
clouds  of  dust  at  every  movement  of  his  well-shaped 
limbs.  One  leg,  however,  wounded  by  a  spent  bullet 
at  Carpi,  is  still  bound  up ;  to  give  it  ease  he  is  resting 
it  upon  a  cavalry  saddle. 

Two  of  his  staff  officers  in  attendance,  at  his  signal, 
step  out  of  the  room. 

"  Come  closer,  Villiers,"  Eugene  says,  affably.  "  Per- 
mit me  to  congratulate  you  on  your  conduct  in.  this 


36  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

day's  affair.  Trust  me,  word  of  it  shall  be  forwarded 
to  my  master  and  your  king,  that  your  gallantry  may 
receive  proper  recognition  from  both." 

"  Thank  your  Highness,"  replies  the  Englishman ; 
adding  deftly :  "  Under  your  command  what  soldier 
could  fail  to  do  his  duty." 

Even  great  men  like  to  be  flattered.  A  little  smile 
ripples  Eugene's  determined  lips.  He  laughs :  "  Your 
tongue  is  as  smooth  as  your  cheeks,  my  boy,  and  they 
are  as  downy  as  when  you  fought  the  Turks  with  me  at 
Zenta  four  years  ago." 

"  I  am  twenty-eight  years  of  age,  your  Highness, 
but,  dash  it,  even  the  wenches  think  I  am  still  a  strip- 
ling. Lord  Harding  thought  so,  too,  last  year,  one 
night  at  White's  Chocolate  house,*  but  I  proved  to 
him  next  morning  in  Hyde  Park  that  if  my  mustache 
was  short  my  sword  was  long,"  answers  Villiers,  winc- 
ing, for  his  youthful  graces  are  a  very  sore  subject  with 
this  hard-riding  cavalry  officer. 

"  Yes,  old  enough  for  great  things  now,  eh  ? " 
laughs  Eugene.  Then  he  commands :  "  Come  closer 
to  me.  This  word  I  have  to  give  you  is  private  beyond 
most  affairs  of  man."  His  glance  becomes  searching 
as  he  queries :  "  You  were  appointed  to-day  by  the 
late  Sir  Andrew  Vesey  to  be  the  guardian  of  his  daugh- 
ter." 

"  He  gave  me  that  trust  with  his  dying  lips,  your 
Highness." 

"  It  is  in  that  view  I  would  speak  to  you,"  returns  the 
commander-in-chief.  "That  unfortunate  gentleman 
explained  to  me  upon  taking  post  as  my  aide-de-camp 
the  reason  of  his  wishing  to  serve  in  Italy.  You,  I 
presume,  already  understand  that,  Captain  ?  " 
*  Probably  the  first  rehouse  in  London;  |t  was  established  ij»  T«g8,-~|5o. 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  37 

"  Yes,  sir,"  replies  Villiers. 

"  You  know  that  he  wished  to  get  to  Cremona  as 
soon  as  possible  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  your  Highness." 

"  You  are  aware  how  he  intended  to  journey 
there  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  When  you,  his  commander,  marched  a 
conqueror  into  the  gates  of  that  city,  Sir  Andrew  ex- 
pected to  ride  beneath  your  banner,  as  do  all  of  us," 
replies  the  young  Englishman. 

"  There  you  are  mistaken,"  remarks  the  Austrian. 
"  Sir  Andrew  Vesey,  having  lived  eighteen  years  irr 
Italy,  was  to  all  intents  and  purposes  an  Italian.  Under 
disguise  his  nationality  would  never  have  been 
guessed.  It  was  my  intention,  as  it  was  his  prayer,  that 
he  should  go  to  Cremona  in  disguise  to  determine  for 
me  not  only  the  feeling  of  the  Lombardians,  but  the 
chances  of  a  successful  attack  upon  that  town,  which  is 
the  strategic  center  of  the  French  position  in  Lom- 
bardy." 

"  As  a  spy !  "  gasps  the  young  officer. 

"  Yes.  Sir  Andrew  himself  suggested  it,  for  I  could 
never  put  such  military  jeopardy  upon  any  but  a  vol- 
unteer. Now  his  death  prevents  my  obtaining  infor- 
mation that  is  of  great  import  to  the  cause  of  my  em- 
peror." 

"  I  speak  Italian  with  the  fluency  of  a  native,  though 
I  have  the  accent  of  Southern  Italy,"  says  Villiers 
eagerly. 

"  Humph !  An  unusual  accomplishment  among 
you  Islanders,  who  generally  think  so  well  of  your 
own  language  you  acquire  the  tongues  of  other  coun- 
tries but  indifferently,"  laughs  the  Prince  of  Savoy, 
though  his  eyes  open  excitedly,  for  here  may  be  the 


38  THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

solution  to  a  problem  that  the  death  of  Sir  Andrew 
Vesey  had  made  almost  impracticable. 

"  Being  a  Catholic,  I  was  sent  as  a  boy  of  ten  to  be 
educated  in  Rome.  They  thought  to  make  me  a 
priest,"  continued  Villiers. 

"  But  turned  out  a  soldier,"  interjects  the  Austrian 
commander,  cheerily ;  then  he  suggests  :  "  You  must, 
therefore,  know  the  customs  of  this  country  as  well  as 
those  of  your  own." 

"  I  do.  Youth  easily  acquires  the  dialect  and  fash- 
ions of  the  land  in  which  it  is  reared.  I  once  sang  like 
an  opera  tenor,  but  the  fogs  of  England,  when  I  re- 
turned to  my  native  land,  took  my  voice  away,  though 
three  months  under  the  Italian  sun  seems  to  have 
given  my  vocal  cords  new  powers.  I  caught  myself 
singing  the  other  morning  a  sarabande  from  Scarlatti's 
'  L'Onestra  Nell  'Amore.'  Hang  it,  I  had  half  my 
squadron  dancing  around  my  tent,"  laughs  the  young 
man ;  then  he  goes  on  proudly :  "  Seven  years  ago,  a 
Lombardian  lady,  whom  I  thought  I  loved,  told  me 
my  Tuscan  was  as  pure  as  that  of  Tasso." 

"  Sapristi,  we  all  think  we  love  at  twenty,"  chuckles 
the  Prince,  meditatively.  To  this  he  adds,  his  eye 
lighting  up :  "  By  your  suggestions  I  should  judge 
you  wish  to  take  the  dead  officer's  place  and  journey 
at  great  military  risk  to  aid  his  daughter." 

"  I  do,"  replies  the  Englishman  stoutly.  He  is 
thinking  of  the  beautiful  miniature,  he  sees  the  glori- 
ous eyes  and  imagines  he  hears  the  lovely  voice. 

"  Understand,  you  will  be  assisted  by  the  power  of 
Austria ;  detachments  of  troops  will  meet  you  at  places 
you  may  suggest ;  money  will  be  furnished  you,"  re- 
marks the  Prince  of  Savoy. 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  39 

"  I  have  plenty  of  my  own,  your  Highness,"  an- 
swers the  captain,  with  Anglo-Saxon  independence. 

"  Ah,  but  it  is  for  the  service  of  the  emperor  you 
risk  your  life.  Therefore  you  must  let  me  assist  you 
with  my  military  chest." 

"  Then  I  accept  the  aid  of  your  money  and  the  sup- 
port of  your  troops  as  you  offer  them,  and  in  return 
devote  my  life,  if  necessary,  to  the  errand  upon  which 
you  send  me,"  whispers  Villiers  determinedly. 

"  In  that  case  we  thoroughly  understand  each  other. 
At  the  proper  moment  in  this  campaign,  and  that  will 
be,  I  hope,  soon,  I  shall  send  you  on  your  errand.  In 
case  it  is  successful,  Eugene  de  Savoy  will  remember 
that  you  have  done  great  things  for  him." 

"  I  thank  your  Highness."  The  Englishman  salutes 
preparatory  to  taking  his  departure,  but  his  com- 
mander by  a  gesture  stops  him.  Then  Eugene's  voice 
grows  very  low  as  he  asks :  "  Do  you  know  how  Sir 
Andrew  Vesey  died  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  fighting  gallantly  under  your  colors,  your 
Highness." 

"  No !  "  The  Austrian  commander's  voice  is  scarce 
a  whisper.  "  He  was  murdered." 

"  Miscrimus! " 

"  Stabbed  from  behind.  We  all  know  that  Sir 
Andrew  Vesey  didn't  turn  his  back  on  retreating 
Frenchmen.  I  myself  saw  him  charge  as  gallantly 
as  ever  soldier  rode.  My  provost  marshal  reports 
that  the  English  gentleman  was  stabbed  from  behind 
where  his  cuirass  joined  his  taces.  Poniarded  by  a 
dastard.  My  provost  marshal  is  looking  for  the  as- 
sassin. But  who  can  tell  who  struck  the  blow  in  the 
confusion  of  a  desperate  onslaught." 


40  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

"  Strange,"  remarks  the  captain,  knitting  his  brows, 
"  that  I  heard  no  rumor  of  it." 

"  Not  at  all  strange,"  replies  Eugene.  "  My  camp 
police  are  keeping  it  very  quiet  in  hopes  of  bringing 
the  assassin  to  military  justice.  I  tell  you  this,  Cap- 
tain Villiers,  so  that  you  may  be  upon  your  guard. 
The  man  who  struck  the  father  of  the  girl  may  now 
strike  you,  her  guardian." 

"  Thank  your  Highness  for  the  warning.  I  shall 
take  good  care  of  my  life,  for  with  this  duty  upon  me  I 
value  it  more  than  I  ever  did." 

But  it  is  not  Eugene's  errand  nor  confidence  that 
makes  the  young  man  place  increased  value  upon  his 
existence.  It  is  the  thought  that  he  may  be  of  aid  to 
the  lovely  yet  helpless  girl  of  the  miniature. 

Saluting,  he  steps  from  the  house  of  his  commander. 
Gazing  out  upon  the  soft  Italian  night,  even  the 
laughter  of  some  staff  officers  who  are  dicing  in  a  big 
headquarters  marquee,  and  the  tramp  of  a  large  cavalry 
detachment  that  is  marching  toward  the  picket  lines 
nearer  the  Oglio,  can  not  destroy  the  romance  in 
Sydney's  mind.  He  can't  help  longing  to  see  in  flesh' 
and  blood  the  lovely  being  the  art  of  Jacopo  Giovanni 
had  portrayed,  this  beauty  that  a  dying  father's  words 
have  given  unto  his  hands. 

With  this  in  his  mind  he  is  perhaps  rather  slow  in 
mounting  his  horse.  Even  as  he  puts  foot  in  stirrup  a 
strong  hand  clasps  his  arm  with  genial  grasp,  and  his 
most  favorite  comrade,  Colonel  Paul  Diak,  acting 
Provost-General  of  the  Army  of  Italy,  whispers  in 
his  ear :  "  Sapristi,  you  are  moody  to-night,  Sydney. 
Didn't  you  hear  me  calling  to  you  from  the  staff  tent 
to  come  and  quaff  a  flagon  with  me  before  you  left 
headquarters  ?  " 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  41 

"  No,  Colonel,  I  was  thinking." 

"  Ah,  yes,  of  your  young  ward,"  remarks  the  colo- 
nel. "  A  curious  legacy,  that  of  to-day's  battlefield. 
Prince  Eugene,"  the  provost  officer's  voice  is  guarded, 
"  gave  you  some  hint  in  regard  to  her  poor  father's 
end?" 

"  Yes — that  he  was  foully  murdered ;  stabbed  from 
behind  while  charging  the  French." 

"  That's  straight  as  a  drum-major's  baton,"  answers 
Diak,  who  is  a  tall,  raw-boned,  dashing  cavalry  officer, 
whose  ancestor  had  fought  under  Gustavus  Adolphus, 
but  who  had  left  his  son  to  take  service  under  the 
flag  of  the  country  against  whom  the  old  Swedish 
soldier  of  fortune  had  periled  his  life  so  often.  "  As 
aide  to  Prince  Eugene,  Vesey  had  taken  the  order  to 
your  regiment  to  charge.  He  joined  in  the  onslaught, 
but  couldn't  have  ridden  as  one  of  your  officers,  so 
none  of  Commerci's  troopers  can  be  guilty.  He  may 
have  been  attended  by  his  own  body  servants,  who 
would  have  ridden  immediately  in  his  rear.  There 
were  two  of  them.  I  understand  they  have  trans- 
ferred themselves  to  your  appenage,  Villiers." 

"  Yes,  one,  a  Neapolitan  varlet,  has  gone  to  sleep  in 
my  horse  blanket  outside  my  hut  after  devouring  all 
the  provisions  in  sight ;  the  other  seems  a  half-witted 
d\varf,"  answers  the  Englishman. 

"  Very  well ;  contrive  to  question  the  fellows  inci- 
dentally," suggests  the  provost  marshal.  "  In  case 
there  is  any  clew  in  their  words,  please  let  me  know. 
Prince  Eugene  is  more  exercised  by  this  treachery 
among  his  own  troops  than  he  is  by  any  immediate 
danger  from  the  beaten  French.  This  wretch  who 
murders  may  also  be  a  spy." 


42  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

"  Thank  you  for  the  suggestion,"  returns  Villiers, 
his  brow  growing  contracted,  for  one  spy  always  fears 
an  opposing  spy,  and  any  information  received  by  the 
French  of  his  secret  journey  to  Cremona  will  greatly 
add  to  the  danger  of  his  arrest  and  execution.  Then 
he  asks :  "  In  your  investigation,  what  have  you  dis- 
covered about  the  fellows,  Colonel  ?  " 

"  Only  this,"  says  Diak.  "  The  boy  dwarf,  though 
he  is  an  Italian,  came  with  Sir  Andrew  from  England. 
The  elder  varlet,  the  Neapolitan,  entered  Vesey's  serv- 
ice immediately  after  the  battle  of  Carpi,  where  his 
English  lackey  had  been  killed  by  a  cannon  shot.  I 
would  question  them  myself,  but  the  provost  marshal's 
interrogations  would  put  them  on  their  guard.  They 
will  doubtless  answer  more  to  your  incidental  in- 
quiries." 

"  Which  I  will  make  immediately,"  replies  Villiers, 
and  rides  back  to  his  hut. 

On  arriving  at  his  quarters,  he  unceremoniously  stirs 
up  with  his  heavy  cavalry  boot  the  sleeping  Neapolitan, 
who  rises,  and,  apparently  half  awake,  answers  his 
questions  in  a  dogged  yet  seemingly  disingenuous 
manner. 

"  You  are  sure,"  asks  the  Englishman,  who  com- 
mences the  conversation  with  some  tact,  "  that  you 
have  brought  me  all  you  late  master's  luggage  ?  " 

"  Si,  signore,"  replies  the  man.  "  I  stole  none  of  it. 
If  any  is  missing,  ask  the  dwarf  boy  who  hides  under 
the  manners  of  a  fool  the  cunning  of  a  monkey." 

"  How  can  you  be  sure  that  none  is  missing  when 
you  to-day  rode  with  your  master  to  the  front  and 
took  part  in  the  battle  ?  " 

At  this  Villiers  imagines  the  Neapolitan  starts 
slightly,  though  he  attempts  to  conceal  this  with  a 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  43 

yawn.  He  inspects  him  closely  and  notices  that 
Giovanni  Umberto  is  a  man  of  large  frame  and  strong 
stature.  He  has  big  black  eyes,  well  shaded  by  im- 
mense jet  lashes,  and  a  mouth  that  is  hidden  by  an 
enormous  mustache.  The  hair  upon  his  face  conceals 
its  emotions  that  are  generally  vivid  in  the  Latin  race, 
and  disguises  the  Italian's  countenance  with  a  placidity 
that  is  unnatural  to  it. 

"  Under  pardon,  your  Excellency,"  answers  Um- 
berto, calmly,  though  there  is  a  slight  quiver  in  his 
voice,  "  I  stayed  in  the  rear  with  the  baggage.  Sir  An- 
drew thought  great  of  that  valise  and  black  box.  He 
ordered  me  not  to  leave  them." 

"  Humph !  Did  the  dwarf  also  remain  with  the  bag- 
gage?" 

"  Si,  signore." 

"  Very  well,  find  Turn  Turn  and  send  him  to  me." 

"  Diavolo!  You  know  his  name!  "  cries  the  Neapoli- 
tan, astounded,  and  would  depart  upon  his  errand. 

But  Villiers  calls  him  back,  and  commands :  "  By 
military  law,  being  my  servant,  you  are  now  attached 
to  the  regiment  Commerci,  and  subject  to  its  regula- 
tions. The  troopers  of  my  regiment  ride  with  shaven 
faces.  See  to  it  that  to-morrow  morning  there  is  no 
mustache  nor  beard,  nor  hair  of  any  kind  except  your 
eyelashes,  upon  your  face,  and  that  they  are  trimmed." 

"  Signore,  as  Sir  Andrew's  servant  I  was  not  at- 
tached." 

"  No,  he  was  an  aide-de-camp.  I  am  a  regimental 
officer.  No  words,  fellow !  To-morrow  morning  a 
clean  face,  or  the  provost  marshal  gives  you  the  es- 
trapado.  Salute  and  find  Turn  Turn !  " 

And  as  the  Neapolitan,  after  a  bungling  attempt  at 
military  salutation,  turns  away,  Villiers  comments  to 


44  tHE   FIGHTING   TROUBAbOtJR. 

himself  grinningly :  "  Sapristi,  the  next  time  I  ques- 
tion him  Signer  Umberto  won't  hide  his  emotions 
from  me  under  mustache  or  beard !  " 

Some  five  minutes  afterward  the  dwarf  comes 
crouching  into  the  hut  of  his  new  master. 

"  Hang  it,  fool,  you're  not  afraid  of  me  ?  "  cries  Vil- 
liers. 

"  No,  signore,  I  am  only  afraid  of — of  bad  people." 
The  boy  looks  about  the  room,  then  glides  to  the  door 
and  gazes  out  in  a  terror  that  the  captain  thinks  is 
imbecile. 

"  Here,  lad,  you  needn't  tremble  at  me.  I  am  your 
friend  as  well  as  master,"  he  calls,  reassuringly ;  then 
questions  :  "  You  came  with  your  late  lord  from  Eng- 
land?" 

"  Oh,  sieur,  don't  speak  of  il  signore.  I  cannot  an- 
swer you  for  the  tears  in  my  eyes.  He  was  so  good 
to  me.  He  took  me  to  England  that  the  great  surgeons 
might  cut  me  up  and  try  to  make  me  straight  like 
other  people,  though  that  was  no  use." 

"  You  remember  his  daughter,  the  little  Lucia?  " 

"  Oh,  signore,  I  adore  her.  Her  voice  is  like  an 
angel's — but  I  shall  never  hear  it  again."  The  tears 
run  down  his  cheeks.  "  She  will  kill  me  as  she  did 
him." 

"She!    Who?" 

"  The  bad  woman." 

"Whom  did  she  kill?" 

"  My  Lord  Vesey." 

"  Idiot,  that's  nonsense,"  cries  the  English  officer. 
"  Petticoats,  in  a  pitched  battle,  murdering  a  cavalry- 
man in  that  charge.  Begad,  that  proves  you're  brain- 
less." 


THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  45 

Still  something  in  the  dwarf's  manner  impresses  the 
young  man,  for,  after  letting  the  boy  slink  off,  he 
summons  his  old  servant,  an  Irish  cavalry  lad  named 
Teddy  O'Bourke,  who  has  looked  upon  the  advent  of 
the  Italian  servitors  with  evil  eyes.  To  him  he  says : 
*  Here,  Teddy,  you  sleep  with  half  an  eye  open,  lay 
your  carcass  across  the  door,  with  sword  by  your  side 
and  pistol  at  your  hand." 

"  Begorra,  is  it  the  ghosts  of  all  the  Turks  you 
killed  at  Zenta  you're  frightened  of?  "  laughs  the  cav- 
alryman, and  does  his  master's  bidding,  as  Villiers 
flings  himself  upon  a  couch  made  of  olive  branches 
ravished  from  a  neighboring  tree,  and,  worn  out  by  the 
fatigues  of  battle,  sleeps  the  slumbers  of  the  tired  war- 
rior, though  Cupid  has  more  to  do  with  his  dreams 
than  Mars ;  for  once  he  half  cries :  "  Devil,  don't 
throw  that  child  into  the  lake ! " 


46  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

BOOK  II. 
LA  PRINCESSA  MARIA. 


CHAPTER  v. 

AN  AMBASSADOR  WITH  A  NOOSE  ROUND  HIS  NECK. 

-From  his  olive  boughs,  Villiers  springs  up  early  in 
the  morning  to  witness  an  interesting  discussion  be- 
tween his  Irish  servant  and  the  Neapolitan,  Umberto. 
The  dispute,  a  common  one  among  soldiers,  is  on  the 
question  of  forage  and  provisions,  and  soon  comes  to 
combat. 

"  Ye  thavin'  foreigner,"  cries  the  Irishman,  his  face 
glowing  with  rage,  "  do  ye  mark  me  !  Ye've  been  stal- 
in'  the  bread  out  of  the  mouth  of  an  honest  man.  Two 
fowls  that  I  had  confiscated  from  a  hen  roost  of  a  baste 
of  a  peasant  down  the  river,  and  three  loaves  of  barley 
flour  that  I  requisitioned  from  his  hut  with  sword  and 
pistol,  have  gone  down  your  empty  Italian  stomach 
while  me  back  was  turned  grooming  his  honor's 
horse." 

"  Cos  petto! "  mutters  the  Neapolitan,  with  a  careless 
shrug  of  his  shoulders,  as  he  finishes  the  last  of  a 
chicken. 

"  By  the  heavens  above,  ye  stop  'ating  or  I'll  cut  a 
hole  into  your  stomach  that  will  let  thr  food  put  a? 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  47 

quick  as  ye  take  it  in,  ye  spalpeen  !  "  cries  the  Irishman, 
springing  upon  the  Italian ;  but  Umberto's  stiletto 
flashes  in  the  air,  and  were  his  wrist  not  seized  and  the 
weapon  wrung  from  him  by  Villiers,  the  regiment  of 
Commerci  would  lack  a  trooper  at  roll  call,  for  the 
dagger  has  been  within  an  inch  of  O'Bourke's  breast. 

"  Here,  take  your  pay,  spogliare ! "  mutters  the 
Italian  sullenly,  and  throws  out  a  louis  to  the  Irishman, 
who  flips  it  in  the  air  and  bites  it  to  see  if  it  is  good, 
golden  coin  being  scarce  at  that  time  in  the  Imperial 
army;  as  his  late  antagonist  is  dragged  by  some  half 
dozen  troopers  to  the  guard  tent. 

Half  an  hour  later  Colonel  Diak  rides  up  to  see 
what  the  Englishman  has  discovered  from  the  servants 
of  the  dead  baronet. 

Hearing  Villiers's  story,  the  provost  marshal  calls 
the  dwarf  boy  up,  and  the  two  question  Turn  Turn. 
Apparently,  partially  relieved  from  some  overpowering 
fear,  the  boy  explains  that  both  he  and  Umberto,  by 
their  master's  order,  remained  with  Sir  Andrew 
Vesey's  baggage,  but  admits  that  during  the  combat 
the  Neapolitan  had  left  him  and  only  returned  while 
the  cavalry  were  making  their  last  charge. 

This  is  told  in  a  disconnected  and  frightened  man- 
ner that  throws  a  good  deal  of  uncertainty  on  the  boy's 
story.  It  is  all  he  can  or  will  tell,  even  though  Diak 
threatens  him. 

The  French  gold  coin,  however,  brings  a  greater 
suspicion  upon  the  Italian.  It  has  apparently  been 
turned  out  from  the  mint  of  Louis  XIV.  during  the 
year.  How  it  could  so  shortly  have  reached  circula- 
tion in  the  Imperial  army  is  something  that  neither  the 
Englishman  nor  the  provost  marshal  can  explain. 

Diak  questions  the  Neapolitan,  and  can  only  get 


48  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

from  him,  even  under  the  estrapade,  the  dogged  an- 
swer that  he  has  received  the  coin  as  wages  from  his 
dead  master,  paid  to  him  within  the  last  month. 

This  statement  is  hardly  borne  out  by  the  money  in 
the  dispatch  box  of  Sir  Andrew  Vesey,  which  is  only 
English  and  German  gold. 

"  With  this  slight  proof,"  remarks  Diak,  "  we  cannot 
bring  the  fellow  to  court-martial  for  the  murder  of 
his  master.  Eugene  would  never  approve  the  sen- 
tence." 

Remembering  his  contemplated  expedition,  Vil- 
liers  dare  not  have  Umberto  near  him.  If  this  man 
is  the  murderer  of  Sir  Andrew  Vesey,  he  is  probably 
also  a  spy.  Villiers's  journey  to  the  French  lines  be- 
trayed, his  life  would  not  be  worth  a  sou-marquee. 

Therefore,  the  provost  marshal,  at  the  English  offr 
cer's  suggestion,  compromises  the  matter.  He  places 
the  unfortunate  Giovanni  Umberto  among  the  grena- 
diers of  Mansfield's  regiment.  He  instructs  the  cap- 
tain of  his  company  to  put  the  Italian  in  the  first  rank 
in  every  battle,  and  directs  the  sergeant  of  the  poor 
wretch's  platoon  during  times  when  the  regiment  is 
not  engaged  to  make  his  life  a  military  hell. 

"  Egad !  "  remarks  Diak,  "  if  Umberto  isn't  shot 
down  in  his  first  combat,  he'll  take  mighty  good  care 
he  doesn't  survive  the  second,  after  he's  had  a  few 
weeks  of  Sergeant  Schwartz's  discipline." 

But  this  compromise  adds  not  greatly  to  the  safety 
of  the  English  captain,  for  he  has  planted  a  vendetta 
in  the  heart  of  Giovanni  Umberto,  who  bears  malice  as 
undying  as  if  he  were  a  Corsican  both  for  the  English 
officer  and  his  Irish  servant. 

Still,  the  man  having  drifted  out  of  his  sight,  Sydney, 
in  the  hard  marchings  and  the  almost  partisan  engage- 


THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  49 

ments  that  take  place  toward  the  end  of  the  campaign — 
for  the  main  body  of  the  French  on  November  14  re- 
treat across  the  Oglio — nearly  forgets  the  wretch  who, 
under  his  breath,  curses  him  at  drill  each  day  as  he 
'.  writhes  beneath  the  canes  of  the  energetic  corporals 
and  athletic  sergeants  of  Mansfield's  grenadiers ;  for  the 
Neapolitan  seems  to  have  the  making  of  a  poor  soldier 
in  his  stout  carcass,  apparently  liking  better  to  do  his 
killing  with  sword  and  poniard  rather  than  with  mus- 
ket and  bayonet. 

So  the  campaign  draws  near  its  close,  the  French 
losing  post  after  post  in  the  Mantuan  territory,  until 
now  the  only  fortified  places  that  fly  the  flag  of  Louis 
XIV.  are  Goito  and  the  capital  city  of  Mantua,  into 
which  the  Count  de  Tesse  has  thrown  himself  with  a 
large  garrison. 

Then  Eugene,  having  captured  Canneto  by  assault 
on  December  4th  makes  efforts  south  of  the  Po. 

The  small  princes  of  Italy,  seeing  which  way  the 
wind  of  victory  blows,  are  anxious  to  hoist  the  Imperial 
banner  over  their  citadels  and  capitals. 

The  Duke  of  Modena  has  privately  promised,  if 
Eugene  but  attack  him  and  so  give  him  an  excuse,  to 
surrender  every  fortress  that  he  holds  to  Austrian  gar- 
risons. To  further  this  plan,  Eugene  immediately 
marches  two  divisions  across  the  Po.  They  take  Gon- 
zaga  by  escalade,  and  there  only  remains  between  them 
and  Modena  the  little  Duchy  of  Mirandola,  with  its 
appenage  Concordia,  ruled  over  by  Francesco  Maria 
Pico,  the  capital  town  of  which  is  filled  with  a  strong 
garrison  of  Louis  and  his  Spanish  ally,  and  has  been 
made  the  depot  of  supplies  for  the  French  south  of  the 
Po. 

To  carry  it  by  arms  will  cost  the  lives  of  at  least  a 


50  THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

regiment.  Therefore  Eugene  enters  into  negotiations 
with  its  Italian  potentate  for  its  betrayal. 

In  thinking  of  this  affair,  the  Prince  of  Savoy 
chances  to  remember  that  Captain  Sydney  Villiers  is 
familiar  with  Italy,  its  people,  customs,  and  language, 
and,  calling  him  to  his  aid,  brings  about  a  most  curious 
climax  to  that  gentleman's  guardianship. 

The  young  officer  is  summoned  to  the  headquarters 
at  Gonzaga  quite  privately  one  night,  and  after  receiv- 
ing cordial  greeting,  the  following  conversation  takes 
place  between  him  and  his  commander-in-chief : 

"  My  dear  Villiers,"  says  the  prince,  "  I  am  about  to 
give  you  the  opportunity  you  have  wished.  If  you, 
succeed  in  this  it  will  prove  to  me  your  ability  to  con- 
duct the  greater  errand  upon  which  I  wish  to  send  you 
as  soon  as  we  go  into  winter  quarters.  Your  efforts 
during  this  little  affair  in  my  behalf  will  be  those  not 
only  of  the  soldier,  but  the  spy  and  the  diplomat." 

"  Your  Highness  surprises  me." 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  curious  story  I  am  going  to  tell  you. 
The  Duke  of  Mirandola  burns  to  be  our  friend,  were 
the  French  garrison  removed,  but  fears  to  be  known  in 
the  matter.  His  daughter,  the  Princess  Maria  Beatrice 
Pico,  is  Austrian  to  the  core.  She  has  proposed  to  me 
by  secret  messenger  to  engage  the  French  garrison  in 
a  carouse  and  to  tender  to  their  officers  a  fete  and  a 
banquet.  While  in  the  height  of  their  festivities  we  are 
to  enter  the  town,  force  the  citadel,  and  capture  the 
garrison.  This,  I  hope,  will  be  done,"  Eugene  smiles 
here,  "  with  the  loss  of  but  one  man — YOU  !  " 

"  Me — your  Highness,"  stammers  Villiers. 

"  Certainly ;  in  the  capture  of  Mirandola  you  must 
at  least  appear  to  die,"  answers  his  commander.  "  For 
this  is  the  last  fortress  we  shall  take  before  going  into 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  51 

winter  quarters.  In  this  attack  Captain  Sydney  Vil- 
liers,  of  Commerci's  horse,  must  disappear.  He  will 
be  supposed  to  be  dead,  but  really  he  will  make  his  way 
to  Cremona  under  instructions  which  will  meet  him  at 
Canneto,  our  most  western  outpost." 

"  Ah,  oh,  I  believe  I  understand  your  Highness.  For 
my  own  safety,  the  French  are  to  think  me  dead  while 
I  go  in  disguise  to  Cremona,"  returns  Villiers,  eagerly. 

"  Certainly,"  answers  Eugene.  "  But  the  details  of 
the  greater  affair  must  wait  until  you  have  performed 
your  mission  to  the  Princess  Maria.  Here  are  instruc- 
tions how  to  reach  her.  After  reading  them  destroy 
them.  It  is  proposed  that  her  fete  take  place  on  the 
1 5th  of  December,  which  is  the  fourth  day  from  this. 
On  that  night,  if  I  receive  proper  word  from  you,  I 
will  have  a  division  secretly  outside  the  gates  of  Miran- 
dola.  During  the  time  you  spend  at  the  court  of  the 
princess  you  are  to  take  cognizance  of  the  strength  of 
the  French  garrison  and  the  best  manner  in  which  our 
troops  may  be  introduced  to  the  town,  the  gates  car- 
ried, and  the  citadel  attacked.  You  will  consult  with 
the  princess,  who  is,  I  am  told,  an  artful  minx,  and  has 
the  French  commandant  quite  enamored  of  her, 
otherwise  he'd  hardly  consent  to  such  festivities 
in  time  of  war.  Arrange  with  her  that  her  fete  to  the 
officers  and  carouse  of  the  garrison  may  be  so  con- 
ducted as  to  make  our  attack  easy  and  successful. 
These  details  you  must  communicate  to  me." 

"  In  what  manner,  sir  ?  I  dare  take  no  attendant 
with  me." 

"  Of  course,  I  understand  that,  but  I  have  provided 
the  princess  with  the  means  of  communicating  with 
me  in  a  cage  of  carrier  pigeons.  In  case  the  affair  can 


52  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

not  be  brought  off  in  this  way,  you  must  get  word  to 
me.  Mirandola  is  but  twenty  miles  from  here." 

"  I  know  the  road,"  answers  the  young  man ;  "  I 
have  traveled  over  it." 

"  Remember !  In  case  I  receive  no  word  from  you, 
except  the  details  of  how  the  attack  must  be  arranged, 
I  shall  consider  that  all  goes  well,  and  make  the  as- 
sault as  your  paper  indicates." 

"  I  understand  you  thoroughly,  your  Highness," 
answers  Villiers,  determinedly. 

"  Then  adieu,  I  leave  you  to  the  arts  of  love  and 
war,"  says  Eugene,  cheerily. 

"  Of  love,  your  Highness?  " 

"  Why  not?  The  Princess  Maria  is  but  twenty  years 
old,  and  said  to  be  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  North- 
ern Italy,  though,  unlike  most  of  her  copatriots,  she 
is  a  blonde." 

"  Indeed,  sir,  is  she  ?  "  remarks  Villiers,  in  so  cold 
a  tone  that  Eugene  gazes  after  his  retreating  emissary, 
an  astonished  look  in  his  face,  and  thinks  the  English 
are  a  cold  and  stolid  race. 

But  Villiers  is  on  fire,  not  with  the  thought  of  meet- 
ing the  Princess  Maria,  but  with  the  idea  that  he  shall 
soon  take  his  journey  to  Cremona,  where  he  hopes  to 
put  eyes  upon  the  beauty  of  the  miniature. 

Thinking  of  his  ward,  he  has  often  wondered :  "  How 
shall  I  rule  her  wisely.  Egad,  I,  who  of  all  men  am 
least  fitted  to  direct  the  steps  of  tender  maidenhood ;  I, 
the  reckless,  gaming  debauchee." 

Though  in  this  matter  Villiers  hardly  does  himself 
exact  justice,  for  already  he  has  changed  his  life  in 
several  particulars,  playing  little  at  the  faro  table,  which 
has  just  become  popular  in  Southern  Europe,  and  risk- 
ing but  few  guineas  on  the  dice  that  are  always  click- 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  53 

ing  in  the  mess  tents  of  the  officers.  Perchance,  also, 
actuated  by  his  oath  to  the  dead  father,  or,  more  prob- 
ably, by  a  passion  that  he  finds  growing  in  him  for  the 
living  daughter,  he  has  sent  back  to  England  a  certain 
Agnes  Blackford,  a  lady  of  considerable  beauty,  but 
much  less  virtue,  who  has  contrived  to  travel  not  very 
far  in  the  rear  of  Prince  Eugene's  army  during  this 
campaign — an  act  of  abstinence  that  has  created  con- 
siderable comment  among  his  brother  officers,  some 
of  them  jeeringly  suggesting  that  the  Italian  air  makes 
Villiers  pious,  and  that  he  is  now  again  bearing  up  for 
the  Church. 

But  these  comments  have  not  ruffled  the  young 
gentleman  very  greatly.  To  them  he  has  answered: 
"  I  don't  suppose  that  it  makes  me  any  worse  soldier, 
or  it  would  make  you  gentlemen  any  less  warriors,  to 
follow  the  example  of  our  illustrious  leader  Eugene 
himself,  who,  though  half  a  hundred  Venuses  smile 
upon  him,  during  active  service  only  worships  Mars." 
In  truth,  he  is  so  filled  up  with  the  beauty  of  the 
girl  of  the  miniature,  which  he  now  wears  upon  his 
breast,  and  the  thought  that  he  is  to  be,  God  willing, 
her  salvation  from  becoming  one  of  the  wenches 
of  the  opera,  that  he  cares  naught  for  the  sight  of  other 
women,  and  only  thinks  of  getting  to  Cremona  in  time 
to  protect  Lucia  Marianna  Vesey  from  the  wiles  and 
power  of  her  artful  maestro,  Giacomo  Pasquale,  who 
would  offer  her  up  for  the  benefit  of  his  own  pocket  on 
the  shrine  of  art  in  every  theater  of  Italy. 

"  The  little  witch  with  her  white  feet  splashing 
the  water  of  Lago  Maggiore,"  he  thinks,  "  saved  me 
from  one  unworthy  love  then,  now  the  sight  of  her 
picture  has  saved  me  from  another." 

Being  anxious  to  get  what  informatiow  he  can  about 


54  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

her,  he  has  questioned  at  every  opportunity  the  dwarf 
boy  Turn  Turn  as  to  the  beloved  mistress  he  left  be- 
hind in  Italy,  but  has  obtained  little  important  infor- 
mation from  the  lad,  save  that  La  Signorina  Lucia  is 
beautiful  as  the  angels  in  an  altar  piece,  and  sings  like 
the  choir  invisible  of  a  Franciscan  convent. 

Of  Turn  Turn's  judgment  as  regards  the  musical 
ability  of  the  young  lady,  Sydney  has  little  reason  to 
doubt,  for  the  dwarf  at  odd  moments  plays  the  man- 
dolin almost  divinely,  and  sings  with  a  barking  kind  of 
falsetto  extraordinary  love  ditties  that  send  the  sol- 
diers into  roars  of  laughter. 

As  Villiers  returns  to  his  tent — for  the  army,  being 
on  the  march,  are  now  encamped  around  the  little  town 
of  Gonzaga — he  finds  the  dwarf  engaged  in  this  amuse- 
ment by  the  camp-fire  to  the  delight  of  half  a  hundred 
surrounding  troopers.  "  Hang  it,"  he  laughs  to  him- 
self, "  Turn  Turn  has  a  voice  as  vile  as  that  of  a  maestro 
di  capella.  I  wonder  if  I  can't  do  better  myself  ?  " 

And  the  melody  getting  into  his  head  of  the  love 
song  the  Italian  boy  has  been  singing,  Villiers  hums 
the  tune  over,  and  then  begins  to  sing  it,  his  voice 
breaking  out  strong,  clear,  and  resonant  as  it  used 
to  be  in  his  old  Italian  days.  "  Gran  Dio !  "  he  ejacu- 
lates, startled  at  his  own  powers.  "  In  this  soft  Italian 
climate  I  have  regained  the  voice  of  seven  years  ago. 
Egad,  I  may  be  able  even  to  sing  duets  with  the  fairy- 
toned  Lucia."  Then  his  brow  knits  as  he  mutters : 
"  Adieu  music,  now  for  the  arts  of  a  spy." 

This  idea  is  not  entirely  pleasing  to  the  hard-riding, 
hard-fighting  officer;  but  being  intent  upon  his  errand, 
he  goes  into  his  quarters,  and  reads  the  instructions 
that  have  been  given  to  him  in  writing  very  carefully 
four  times  over;  in  fact,  he  memorizes  them.  The 


THE    FIGHTINd   TROUBADOUR.  55 

paper  having  fallen  to  ashes  in  the  flame  of  his  tallow- 
dip,  he  considers  his  actions  in  the  matter  very  deeply, 
knowing  if  arrested  by  the  French  he  will  have  the  fate 
of  a  spy — and  also  aware  that  on  his  conduct  depends 
the  success  of  the  affair — for  a  surprise  that  fails  is 
generally  very  costly  to  the  troops  engaged  in  it.  All 
the  next  day  he  makes  his  preparations  very  carefully, 
giving  no  hint  to  anyone,  and  the  next  night  at  nine 
o'clock  sallies  out  of  his  tent  and  hurriedly  orders  his 
Irish  body  servant  to  have  his  best  charger  saddled, 
and  to  be  ready  himself  to  ride  out  behind  him  within 
the  hour,  though  not  a  word  of  this  to  any  living  man. 

"  I  am  still  as  a  ferret,  yer  honor,"  whispers  Teddy ; 
then  eagerly  asks:  "  Is  it  foraging?  And  what  has  yer 
worship  done  with  yer  mustache  ?  " 

At  this  Villiers  storms  at  him :  "  Keep  your 
tongue  quiet."  For  he  has  sacrificed  for  this  adventure 
a  very  soft  mustache  that  has  been  the  product  of 
seven  years'  careful  cultivation. 

Within  the  time  appointed,  Villiers,  attended  by 
O'Bourke,  both  armed  with  swords  and  pistols,  and 
properly  provided  with  a  military  passport  to  leave 
camp,  ride  out  from  Gonzaga  in  the  direction  of  Miran- 
dola,  which  lies  some  twenty  miles  slightly  south  of 
east  from  Gonzaga,  in  the  fertile  plain  watered  by  the 
two  little  rivers  Secchia  and  Panaro,  and  situated 
about  midway  between  these  streams. 

Villiers  rides  rapidly,  for  the  road,  though  not  one 
of  the  great  highways  of  Italy,  is  quite  good,  and  well 
traveled  by  many  peasants  journeying  with  their 
produce  into  the  capital  of  the  little  duchy.  He  knows 
there  are  no  French  garrisons  nearer  than  Concordia 
on  the  first  named  river,  and,  therefore,  trots  along 


56  **HE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

boldly,  for  every  foraging  party  of  the  enemy  in  Man- 
tua or  Medona  has  been  driven  in. 

Just  about  morning  they  make  the  Secchia,  but  not 
daring  to  cross  the  bridge  at  Concordia,  they  make  a 
detour  and  swim  it,  something  like  a  mile  above  the 
little  city. 

From  the  river  bank  it  is  scarce  four  miles  to  Miran- 
dola.  Fortunately  for  Sydney's  plan,  the  country  is 
wooded  near  the  watercourse. 

In  a  dense  thicket  of  willows,  topped  by  an  occa- 
sional chestnut  tree,  Villiers  signals  to  his  Irish  servant 
to  halt. 

"For  breakfast,  yer  honor?"  says  O'Bourke,  joy- 
ously, and  would  kindle  a  fire. 

"  Not  a  spark  if  you  love  your  life !  "  commands  his 
captain,  sternly  "  You  have  brought  two  days' 
rations  with  you,  as  I  ordered  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yer  honor/' 

"  Then  stay  here  and  eat  them !  Keep  my  horse," 
and  Villiers  springs  off  his  charger,  taking  with  him 
a  small  valise  he  has  carried  on  the  saddle  behind  him. 

"  Oh,  wherra,  I'm  shivering  after  the  cold  water  of 
the  river,"  ejaculates  Teddy,  with  chattering  teeth. 
"  I  stay  here.  How  long?  " 

"  Till  you  have  eaten  your  rations,  or  I  return  to 
you." 

"  And  av  you  don't  return  to  me  ?  The  inemy  are 
not  far  away  over  there,  and  yer  honor's  eyes  have 
some  desperate,  divil-may-care  plot  in  thim."  Here 
Teddy  astounds  his  captain  by  asking  excitedly: 
"  Tare  an'  ages,  yer  not  after  catching  that  Italian 
spalpeen  ?  " 

"What  Italian  spalpeen?" 

"  That  divil  Umberto,  who  had  his  skin  taken  off 


THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  57 

by  the  drillmasters  in  Mansfield's  rigiment.  Beware  of 
him,  yer  honor.  I've  seen  his  shaved  face  as  yer  rode 
by  him  as  he  stood  in  the  ranks.  Av  yer  had  fifty 
lives,  be  me  soul,  and  he  could  get  'em  safely,  I  think 
he'd  lave  ye  widout  one  of  'em." 

"  Pish !  Umberto  is  tightly  in  the  ranks  of  the  regi- 
ment of  Mansfield." 

"  Begorra,  but  he  isn't !  The  Italian  Umberto  de- 
sarted  yisterday.  I  was  thinkin'  as  how  ye  were  after 
trying  to  catch  him." 

At  this  Viliiers  bursts  into  a  sneering  laugh,  and 
adds  sharply :  "  Never  mind  Umberto.  On  no  ac- 
count leave  here  for  two  days !  " 

In  case  he  doesn't  succeed  in  entering  Mirandola  this 
will  give  him  a  means  of  retreat.  "  At  the  end  of  that 
time,"  continues  the  officer,  sharply,  "  not  hearing  from 
me,  you  return  to  Gonzaga."  This  order  he  supplements 
savagely :  "  Mark  me,  if  you  freeze  to  death,  no  fire. 
These  are  my  last  words  to  you !  "  and  leaves  the  Irish 
trooper  muttering  after  him :  "  Divil  take  ye,  I've  no 
doubt  thase  are  yer  last  words.  Bedad,  ye  might  have 
made  'em  a  little  kinder." 

But  Sydney  trudges  stoutly  on,  though  once  he  re- 
marks jeeringly  to  himself :  "  Monsieur  le  Capitaine 
Viliiers,  Embassador  to  the  Court  of  Mirandola,  with 
a  noose  about  his  diplomatic  neck." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  GOATHERD  COMES  TO  COURT. 

Half  a  mile  nearer  Mirandola  there  is  another  clump 
of  trees.  In  these  the  English  officer,  valise  in  hand, 
disappears. 


58  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

From  this  same  shrubbery  there  comes,  some  few 
minutes  afterward,  an  Italian  peasant  boy,  his  bronzed 
face  lighted  by  very  bright  sparkling  eyes,  and  crowned 
with  a  lot  of  dark  flowing  curls.  He  is  lightly  dressed 
in  a  well-wooled  skeepskin,  from  which  his  bare  legs 
extend  in  all  the  innocence  of  a  Tuscan  goatherd. 
These  limbs  run  down  to  dirty  feet  that  are  covered 
with  rough,  untanned  leather  sandals,  carelessly  tied 
by  strings  of  hide.  A  goat-skin  belt  supports  a  pouch 
that  is  filled  with  chestnuts  that  deftly  conceal  two  pis- 
tols, each  freshly  primed  and  well  loaded  with  a  brace 
of  balls.  Beneath  the  weapons  of  war  is  the  weapon 
of  diplomacy,  a  purse  well  filled  with  golden  louis. 
With  a  goatherd's  crook  in  his  hand,  the  lad  trips 
along  the  road  that  is  now  lighted  by  the  sun  just  ris- 
ing over  the  plain  that  leads  toward  the  Adriatic. 

At  a  good  pace,  and  whistling  merrily,  the  youth 
soon  after  turns  into  a  little  field  path,  not  seeming  to 
care  for  the  better  traveled  highway. 

After  some  three  miles  of  trudging  he  looks  at  an 
old  walled  city  surrounded  by  its  medieval  fosse.  The 
sunlight  is  flashing  upon  the  steeples  of  its  cathedral 
and  the  faqade  of  its  ducal  palace.  Beneath  these 
cluster,  street  on  street,  more  modest  houses  of 
medieval  architecture,  similar  to  those  of  many  Italian 
cities  of  to-day,  though  in  the  nearby  fields  and  suburbs 
there  are  some  outlying  villas  and  white  cottages  sur- 
rounded by  their  little  orchards,  which  soften  a  picture 
that  without  them  would  be  too  precise ;  for  this  is  a 
bastioned  city,  well  defended  according  to  the  military 
skill  of  that  time,  and  water  flows  in  its  surrounding 
inoat,  being  brought  from  the  Panaro  River  some  few 
miles  away. 


THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  59 

Upon  the  ducal  palace  only  is  the  flag  of  Mirandola ; 
its  walls  and  gates  fly  the  lilies  of  Louis  XIV. 

Gazing  at  its  red  tiled  roofs,  its  bastions,  gray  with 
time,  its  surrounding  groves  of  orange,  almond,  and 
mulberry,  all  lighted  by  an  Adriatic  sun  that  is  even  now 
growing  warm  and  pleasant,  the  shepherd  boy  mur- 
murs :  "  Mirandola,  thou  art  beautiful  as  thy  name !  " 

This  inspection  he  has  made  very  cautiously,  though 
there  are  but  few  people  in  the  surrounding  country ; 
most  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  suburbs,  apparently 
frightened  at  coming  war,  have  betaken  themselves  for 
safety  within  the  walls. 

Suddenly  the  clank  of  cavalry  from  behind  him 
comes  to  his  ears,  and  this  peasant  boy,  who,  to  make 
his  inspection  more  complete,  has  wandered  to  the  edge 
of  the  main  highway,  throws  himself  into  a  dry  ditch 
that  skirts  it,  and  is  protected  by  a  thick  bordering 
hedge  of  evergreens.  Like  most  non-combatants,  he 
seems  to  be  frightened  of  troops  of  either  side,  and  lies 
close  as  a  hare  and  scarce  breathing  as  a  squad  of  pa- 
trolling horse  comes  riding  past  him  from  the  direction 
whence  he  came. 

They  are  going  at  a  slow  trot,  and  laughing  to  them- 
selves barbarously  at  a  man  they  must  have  made  a 
sudden  prisoner,  for  he  is  clothed  in  the  garb  of  Adam, 
save  for  a  pair  of  high  cavalry  boots  with  long  spurs 
that  are  on  his  feet,  and  a  hussar  cloak  that  one  of  his 
captors  apparently  has  thrown  to  him,  which,  for  the 
sake  of  decency,  he  has  wrapped  about  his  loins. 

Even  as  this  squad  passes  the  close-lying  shepherd 
boy  hears  a  wild  Irish  voice  crying :  "  Begorra, 
slacken  yer  pace  a  little.  I've  trained  for  a  cavalry- 
man, and  not  for  a  foot-racing  infantry  boy.  Divils, 


60  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

don't  ye  know  one  of  yer  own  kind,  one  of  the  Frinch 
rigiment  of  Dillon." 

But  the  French  patrol  does  not  seem  to  understand 
him,  and  goes  clanking  along,  the  cornet  in  command 
laughing  to  his  sergeant  at  the  antics,  grimaces,  and 
wild  yells  of  their  prisoner,  as  one  of  the  troopers  spurs 
him  to  greater  speed  by  the  point  of  a  saber  delicately 
applied  just  under  the  draping  cavalry  cloak.  In  the 
rear  of  the  squad  rides  a  trooper  leading  the  charger 
Villiers  had  left  behind  him  in  care  of  his  Irish  serv- 
ant as  well  as  the  horse  of  Mr.  O'Bourke  himself. 

For  a  moment  the  peasant  boy  has  difficulty  in  chok- 
ing down  a  laugh,  but  when  he  rises  his  face  has  a  very 
serious  look  upon  it,  as  he  mutters :  "  My  rear  guard 
and  retreat  have  been  cut  off  immediately.  Poor  Teddy, 
what  will  they  do  with  you  ?  "  Here  catching  sight  of 
the  flag  of  France  being  run  up  on  the  citadel,  and 
noticing  the  guard  being  relieved  at  a  nearby  gate  of 
the  city,  his  hand  involuntarily  seeks  his  goatskin 
sack  wherein  lie  the  two  horse  pistols. 

After  a  short  inspection,  he  mutters  determinedly  : 
"  The  third  bastion  to  the  right  of  the  Concordia  gate. 
Ah,  yes,  the  ducal  gardens  are  immediately  beyond  it." 
For  there  are  trees  of  lemon,  almond,  and  orange  that 
here  overtop  the  walls,  which  are  a  little  lower  at  this 
point. 

Then  he  very  cautiously  makes  a  military  inspection 
of  the  place,  and  it  is  not  encouraging.  The  walls  are 
apparently  thick,  and  the  bastions  and  outworks  are 
constructed  in  the  best  art  of  Vauban.  The  citadel 
is  at  the  other  end  of  the  town,  to  the  east,  nearer  the 
Adriatic.  It  apparently  has  also  been  constructed  on 
the  plans  of  Vauban,  and  could  be  taken,  unless  by 
stratagem,  only  by  regular  approach  and  bombard- 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  6 1 

ment.  To  surprise  the  town  will  be  also  very  difficult, 
as  all  outlying  buildings  have  been  leveled  and  all  trees 
have  been  cut  down  to  some  two  hundred  yards  out- 
side the  moat,  though  opposite  the  ducal  garden  there 
is  a  grove  of  chestnut  trees,  mixed  with  some  mul- 
berry, and  dominated  by  two  tall  poplars.  This  is  just 
outside  the  line  of  military  destruction. 

The  bells  of  the  cathedral  are  sounding.  Glancing 
at  its  great  clock,  he  notes  it  is  now  seven  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  "  It  is  the  time ! ;>  he  says,  determinedly, 
and  wanders  toward  the  grove  of  trees  topped  by  the 
tall  poplars. 

Here  in  a  little  dell  he  sees  a  pretty  peasant  girl,  her 
eyes  sparkling  vivaciously,  though  she  casts  them 
about  anxiously  from  time  to  time,  as  she  herds  some 
half  dozen  geese  that  wander  hissing  and  quacking 
before  her. 

Upon  her  shapely  legs  are  stout  woolen  stockings, 
well  displayed  by  the  short  skirts  of  her  class.  On  feet 
exceedingly  small  for  a  country  drudge  are  a  pair  of 
sabots  that  seem  to  trouble  her  greatly.  The  wench 
steps  as  if  unaccustomed  to  their  weight. 

To  her  the  peasant  boy,  his  eyes  sparkling  at  the 
charming  sight,  trips  eagerly,  a  little  quiver  of  anxiety 
on  his  lips. 

Catching  glimpse  of  him,  the  damsel  cries :  "  Hola ! 
three  cock  feathers  in  your  cap,  my  popinjay." 

And  he  returns  to  her:  "You  wear  but  two,  my 
goose  chaser." 

"  You  are  sure  you  counted  right  ?  "  asks  the  peas- 
ant girl,  a  curious  look  of  interest  in  her  face. 

"  Certain ! "  answer§  the  shepherd,  "  as  I  see  you 
have  two  eye§," 


6a  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

At  these  words  the  maid  steps  quickly  toward  him, 
and,  changing  her  conversation  from  Italian  patois  to 
courtly  French,  murmurs :  "  You  are  expected,  sig- 
nore.  Only,''  here  the  minx  laughs,  "  for  a  peasant 
boy,  your  legs,  my  fine  gentleman,  are  too  white?  They 
have  not  seen  the  sun  for  many  a  day." 

To  this  the  boy  returns  a  muttered :  "  Basta,  didn't 
I  rub  enough  dust  upon  them  ?  "  then  retorts :  "  And 
your  ankles,  my  pert  maid,  are  too  shapely  for  a  goose 
tender,  and  your  pretty  feet  too  small  to  wear  sabots. 
They  make  you  waddle  like  the  birds  you  follow." 

"  Keep  your  eyes  to  yourself,  Mr.  Jackanapes,"  cries 
the  young  lady  sharply.  "  You  will  perhaps  need 
them  to  save  your  neck  from "  she  makes  a  hang- 
man's sign;  then  suddenly  whispers:  "  Quick,  come 
with  me.  She  who  sent  me  is  anxious  for  you,  my 
pretty  page." 

"  Page !  "  snarls  the  shepherd  boy.  "  How  old  dost 
think  me,  Sauce-box?" 

"  Fifteen,  though  not  well  grown." 

"  Does  fifteen  have  bristles  under  his  nose  ?  " 

At  this  the  maid  stamps  her  sabots  and  slaps  at  him, 
for  the  audacious  youth  has  put  an  iron  arm  about  her 
lithe  waist,  and  coolly  snatched  a  kiss. 

"  Malapert,  I'll  have  you  whipped,"  she  whimpers ; 
then  startles  him,  for  she  says  contemplatively :  "  I 
might  have  known  you  were  an  expert  at  the  kissing 
art,  otherwise  why  should  my  mistress  want  to  see 
your  forward  face."  Then  the  girl's  eyes  grow  fright- 
ened ;  she  says  hurriedly :  "  But  she  is  waiting  for 
you.  Don't  keep  me  paltering  here.  My  lady  has  an 
impatient  temper  and  quick  hand  with  her— her  peas- 
ant girls," 


?HE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  *>3 

"  You  mean  maidte  of  honor,"  laughs  the  boy. 
"  Lead  on.  What  is  your  pretty  name  ?  " 

"  Metia,  signore.    But  she  awaits  you.    En  evant !  " 

"Which  way?"  asks  the  goatherd,  looking  about. 
"  I  see  no  path  to  your  mistress's  presence,  save  by  the 
gates  of  yonder  city,  to  which  I  have  no  passport." 

"  There  is  a  way  I  am  to  show  you,"  answers  the 
maid,  provided  you  tell  me  one  other  thing." 

"  And  that  is,"  suggests  the  peasant,  "  that  the  Duke 
Francesco  has  two  thumbs  and  is  sixty  next  feast  of  the 
Ascension." 

"  You  seem  to  guess  my  very  thoughts.  Come  with 
me,"  laughs  the  goose  tender. 

"What,  into  your  goose  pen?"  queries  the  shep- 
herd, glumly,  for  she  has  opened  the  gate  of  the  coop. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  it  is  clean.  I  have  swept  it  out  these  three 
days  waiting  for  you,"  mutters  the  girl,  who  has  ap- 
parently been  by  no  means  pleased  with  her  occupa- 
tion. "  Quick,  sir."  At  her  word  he  follows  her  into 
the  inclosure,  and  in  the  very  center  of  a  thick  copse 
of  closely  grown  evergreens  at  the  far  end  of  the  pen 
she  draws  away  a  lot  of  boughs  and  trailing  vines,  dis- 
closing to  the  wondering  shepherd  a  shaft  or  opening 
in  the  earth. 

"  There  is  no  chance  of  this  being  discovered,"  sug- 
gests the  shepherd  in  military  contemplation. 

"  But  little  now,  sir.  Nearly  all  the  inhabitants  of 
the  fields  about,  fearing  the  march  of  hostile  armies, 
have  taken  refuge  in  the  city.  It  must  have  been  built 
many,  many  years  ago  as  a  means  of  access  to  the 
Outer  country  from  the  ducal  gardens,  either  for  the 
purpose  of  foray  or  of  flight." 

"  You  speak  quite  learnedly  for  a  goose  tender," 
laughs  the  shepherd. 


64  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

"  And  you  seem  to  have  military  instinct  for  a  goat- 
herd," rejoins  the  girl.  "  I  have  noticed  you  counting 
the  cannon  on  yonder  bastion." 

With  these  words  the  girl  descends  a  little  ladder.  A 
second  after  the  boy  follows  her. 

From  the  bottom  of  the  shaft,  scarce  eight  feet  below 
the  surface,  runs  a  passage,  apparently  leading  toward 
the  town.  Lighting  by  flint  and  steel  two  candles,  one 
for  each,  Metia  whispers :  "  Follow  me !  "  and  trips 
along  a  tunnel  scarce  five  feet  wide. 

After  some  considerable  distance  the  tunnel,  which 
has  gradually  descended,  begins  to  ascend.  "  We 
are  under  the  moat  now,"  whispers  the  girl.  The  trick- 
ling ooze  in  the  masonry  of  the  passage  tells  her  fol- 
lower she  speaks  the  truth. 

A  short  time  after  they  are  at  the  foot  of  another 
short  shaft.  Ascending  the  ladder  in  this,  Metia,  after 
careful  examination,  pushes  open  a  small  trap  door, 
and  the  light  of  day  greets  the  shepherd's  eyes. 

A  moment  later  he  is  beside  his  fair  guide  in  a  little 
summer  house  of  rustic  work,  covered  with  trailing 
vines  and  running  plants,  so  as  to  make  it  quite  private 
from  outside  observation. 

Gazing  from  this,  the  peasant  boy  sees  he  is  in  the 
royal  gardens  of  Mirandola.  The  ducal  palace  is  in 
front  of  him,  nearer  to  the  heart  of  the  town,  its  rear 
pavilions  extending  into  the  flowery  inclosure,  which  is 
beautified  by  fountains  and  running  streams  of  water, 
and  made  private  by  a  wall  of  moderate  height.  The 
bastions  of  the  city  in  some  places  come  to  within  fifty 
yards  of  this.  Without  is  an  armed  fortress,  within  a 
garden  lovely  as  that  of  Eden.  At  least,  that  is  what  it 
seems  to  the  shepherd  boy. 

Whispering,  "  Stay  here !  "  the  goose-girl  flits  away. 


THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  65 

So  he  waits  some  little  time,  cursing  woman's  dawdling 
ways.  Once,  hearing  suspicious  steps,  he  reaches  to- 
ward the  goatherd's  pouch  to  feel  sure  of  his  horse  pis- 
tols. Finally,  to  drive  away  care,  he  throws  himself 
down  upon  a  bench  and  goes  to  singing  a  little  Tuscan 
love  air. 

A  moment  after  it  is  answered,  the  song  being  taken 
up  quite  merrily.  With  the  notes  on  her  lips,  a  young 
and  beautiful  lady  enters  the  summer  house.  She  is 
gowned  in  the  laces  of  Venetia,  and  the  light  silks  that 
are  made  in  Padua,  her  long  bodice  being  of  the  latest 
mode,  laced  both  before  and  behind,  with  hanging 
sleeves  from  which  her  white  arms  come  flashing  out. 
As  she  steps,  the  youth  notes  her  long  train  is  tucked  up 
over  an  immense  petticoat  of  shimmering  satin  to  show 
the  pretty  feet  in  little  jeweled  slippers.  Her  curls  are 
tied  up  by  ribbons  blue  as  her  eyes ;  for  she  is  a  blond 
beauty,  whose  hair  is  yellow  as  gold,  and  skin  white  as 
alabaster.  She  has  a  little  rosebud  mouth  and  piquant, 
slightly  retrousse  nose,  and  an  entrancing  yet  perhaps 
wicked  smile — certainly  a  mischievous  one.  She  is 
just  under  the  middle  height  of  women,  and  has  a 
figure  graceful  as  a  bird's. 

Behind  her,  some  fifty  yards  away,  stands  respect- 
fully a  lady  of  her  court,  robed  richly,  but  in  black. 
Obeying  a  glance,  the  attendant  through  all  the  inter- 
view never  approaches  near  enough  to  hear  the  con- 
versation of  her  mistress;  but,  pretending  abstraction, 
wanders  about  the  garden  circling  round  the  little  sum- 
mer house,  and  acting  more  as  a  guard  against  intru- 
sion than  as  a  chaperon  to  her  young  autocrat. 

The  goose  girl,  who  has  brought  him  here,  now 
robed  as  a  maid  of  honor,  carries  her  mistress's  train, 
and  after  arranging  this  with  low  obeisance  says: 


66  THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

"  Your  Gracious  Highness,  this  is  the  peasant  boy  who 
had  three  cock  feathers  in  his  hat,  and  told  me  I  wore 
but  two." 

"  Ah,"  remarks  the  lady,  who  has  turned  toward  the 
youth,  who  has  risen  respectfully  to  receive  her,  "  you 

are,  as  your  general  wrote  to  me "  Then  she 

pauses  and  asks  sharply:  "Who  did  he  say  you 
were  ?  " 

"  Captain  Sydney  Villiers,  of  Prince  Commerci's 
horse,  a  volunteer  by  permission  of  the  King  of  Eng- 
land to  serve  in  the  emperor's  armies,  and  the  humble 
servant  of  Princess  Maria  Beatrice  Pico,  of  Miran- 
dola  and  Concordia,  to  do  whose  bidding  he  has  been 
sent  by  Prince  Eugene  of  Savoy,"  answers  the  goat- 
herd, and,  sinking  on  his  knee,  kisses  the  fair  and 
jeweled  hand  that  is  extended  to  him. 

"  Your  words  are  right,  sir.  I  welcome' you  to  Mir- 
andola,"  whispers  the  lady ;  then  laughs  archly :  "  You 
needn't  kiss  my  hand  again,"  for  at  her  welcome  Syd- 
ney's lips  have  again  sought  the  patrician  fingers 
that  he  still  holds. 

"  Metia,"  the  princess  speaks  with  the  tone  of  one 
accustomed  to  command,  "  prepare  yourself  for  the 
duties  I  have  told  you,  but  as  you  value  my  favor,  no 
word  of  this  to  living  soul." 

And  the  Lady  Metia,  courtesying  to  the  earth,  bows 
herself  out  of  the  presence  of  the  princess  of  this  little 
Italian  dukedom,  who  now  turns  upon  the  peasant 
boy  eyes  that  seem  to  linger  on  him  as  she  queries 
anxiously:  "  Your  master  thoroughly  understands  my 
message? " 

"  Yes,  your  Highness.  I  am  to  remain  here  to  re- 
port if  aught  happens  to  prevent  or  postpone  a  carouse 
given  by  you  to  the  French  soldiers  of  this  garrison, 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  67 

and  a  fete  and  banquet  also  tendered,  I  understand,  by 
you  to  their  officers,  upon  the  evening  of  the  I5th, 
which  is  the  third  night  from  now.  Should  I  send  no 
word  to  Eugene,  eight  regiments  of  foot  and  four  of 
horse  will  be  in  the  woods  nearest  this  town  on  the 
night  appointed  ready  to  take  the  Concordia  gate  by 
assault." 

"  Your  words  are  right,  sir.  Thank  heaven,  the 
1 5th  is  coming  soon;  for  I  am  tired  of  the  beastly 
French,"  says  the  lady  with  a  coquettish  moue;  then 
her  voice  grows  angry :  "  Though  daughter  of  the 
reigning  duke,  I  am  no  longer  mistress  here.  Colonel 
de  Vivans,  Louis's  commander,  treats  this  as  a  con- 
quered town.  He  has  even  threatened  to  replace  our 
troops  and  sentries  in  the  ducal  palace  with  those  of 
France." 

"  Then  it  is  fortunate  the  day  appointed  is  so  near," 
answers  Villiers.  "  I  shall  immediately  inspect  this 
city,  your  Highness,  and  send  my  general  word  as  to 
the  best  method  of  making  the  surprise,"  adding  after 
a  moment's  consideration :  "  I  think  it  can  be  done 
successfully.  A  regiment  of  foot  concealed  in  that 
grove  of  trees,  in  which  is  the  goose  pen,  after  nightfall 
can  be  introduced  through  the  passage  under  the  moat 
into  this  very  kiosk,  and  thence  into  your  surrounding 
gardens.  From  these  gardens,  at  proper  time  and  sig- 
nal, they  can  sally  upon  the  French  when  wine  and 
merriment  make  them  an  easy  prey,  and  open  the  Con- 
cordia gate  to  the  army  in  waiting." 

"  You  have  a  quick  eye  for  military  vantage,  sir," 
says  the  lady. 

"  No  one  knows  of  this  passage?  "  asks  Villiers,  anx- 
iously. 

"  None,  I  think,  except  myself  and  the  Lady  Metia, 


68  THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

The  messenger  I  sent  to  Prince  Eugene  went  forth 
that  way,  but  he  was  blindfolded  until  he  had  passed 
into  the  grove.  Besides,  the  last  time  I  sent  him  to 
Prince  Eugene  I  asked  his  highness  to  keep  my  mes- 
senger closely  guarded  until  after  this  affair  had  come 
off,"  remarks  the  royal  lady,  with  an  acuteness  that 
makes  Villiers  open  his  eyes. 

"  Hush !  I  think  I  hear  a  noise,"  the  gentleman  in- 
terjects suddenly,  and  steps  cautiously  to  the  door. 

"  Yes,  one  of  my  peacocks  pluming  himself  outside !  " 
then  she  laughs :  "  But  this  proves  you  are  indeed  a 
cavalry  officer." 

"How  so?"  asks  Villiers,  astounded. 

"  Your  hand  sought  the  hilt  of  your  absent  saber 
from  very  force  of  habit.  Still,  for  your  own  safety,  for 
my  safety,  remember  you  are  still  a  goatherd."  To 
this  she  adds  contemplatively :  "  And  quite  a  boy  to  be 
sent  on  such  a  dangerous  mission." 

"  Your  Highness,  I  am  an  officer  who  has  served 
in  two  campaigns,  and  fought  in  six  pitched  battles.  I 
am  a  man  of  twenty-eight,"  answers  Villiers,  so  sternly 
the  princess  looks  abashed,  and  murmurs :  "  Forgive 
me,"  then  giggles :  "  Egad,  you  don't  look  it." 

"  Madame,  permit  me  to  prove " 

"  That  you  have  reached  both  the  discretion  and 
vigor  of  manhood  ?  Your  prince  by  sending  you  has 
proved  the  first." 

"As  to  the  second,  with  your  permission,  your 
Highness,  I  will  prove  that  when  I  raise  sword  for 
you ! " 

"  Pardie,  there  are  other  ways  than  fighting,"  laughs 
the  princess,  her  eyes  giving  a  strange  emphasis  to  her 
speech ;  then  she  suddenly  asks,  anxiously ;  <(  You 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  69 

thoroughly  appreciate  the  danger  that  is  to  you,  to  me, 
if  you  are  found  here  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  your  Highness." 

"  You  also  are  aware  that  my  father,  the  Duke  Fran- 
cesco, knows  naught  of  this  matter?  " 

"  Of  course.  That  is  well  understand  by  Prince 
Eugene.  Your  father  knows  as  little  of  this  affair  as 
the  French  commandant,  De  Vivans,  whom  we  will 
surprise  and  capture,  by  God's  aid  and  that  of  your 
Highness,"  laughs  Sydney. 

"  But  to  surprise  him  we  must  be  as  cautious  as 
Naples  bravos,"  remarks  the  royal  lady;  adding 
anxiously :  "  You  were  seen  by  no  one  save  my  maid 
of  honor,  the  Lady  Metia,  who,  I  hope,  gave  you 
pleasant  greeting." 

"  Indeed  she  did,  though  she  criticised  my  disguise 
somewhat." 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  remember,"  smiles  the  princess.  "  Metia 
remarked  to  me  that  your  legs  were  too  white  for  a 
shepherd.  Besides,  your  mouth  was  not  full  of  chest- 
nuts, and  your  lips  didn't  smell  of  garlic.  How  did 
Metia  know  the  last?  "  The  royal  eyes  are  roguish. 

"  Egad,  your  Highness,  I  never  fathom  the  intui- 
tions of  woman,"  answers  the  peasant  boy,  whose  man- 
ners are  gradually  becoming  those  of  a  cavalry  officer. 

"  Ah,  you  are  discreet.  I  like  a  silent  tongue — in  a 
lover,"  says  the  princess  contemplatively.  "  But  you 
must  eat  garlic  if  you  wear  that  dress." 

"  I  beg  you  forgive  me  the  garlic,  though  I  can 
devour  chestnuts."  The  young  man  puts  his  hand  in 
his  pouch  and  goes  to  munching  them.  "  I  am  hungry 
enough  now  for  even  that,  your  Highness." 

"  del,  you  are  giving  hint  for  breakfast.  You 
military  men  are  always  hungry,"  laughs  Maria. 


70  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

"  Your  breakfast  is  an  easy  matter,  but  how  to  keep 
you  safe  and  unsuspected  while  you  are  here.  The 
French  officers  are  all  about  my  palace.  For  our  suc- 
cess, my  hospitality  to  them  must  be  unbounded.  Be- 
sides," here  she  looks  at  the  young  man  quizzically, 
"  your  legs  are  so  very  white  for  a  goatherd's." 

"  Then  give  me  hose  to  put  upon  them  and  keep  me 
from  catching  cold." 

"  Too  great  a  luxury  for  a  clodhopper.  And  then  a 
shepherd  in  a  royal  palace?  There,  shut  your  mouth 
and  let  me  think." 

Her  blue  orbs  close,  her  white  brows  knit  them- 
selves in  pretty  frown.  After  a  moment  the  azure  eyes 
open,  and  then  the  sweetly  pouting  lips.  "  You  were 
singing  when  I  came  to  you,"  she  says.  "  You  have  a 
voice  like  a  boy  in  the  Sistine  Convent.  You  speak 
Italian  like  a  native.  You  also  jabber  court  French, 
and  yet  are  English.  How  is  this?  " 

"  Your  Highness,  from  my  tenth  to  my  twentieth 
year  I  was  educated  in  Rome." 

"  So,  then  you  must  know  something  of  our  ballad 
poetry." 

"  Madame,  I  can  sing  half  a  dozen  Tuscan  love 
songs,  besides  a  comic  one  telling  the  story  of  the 
wickedness  of  Macaire  and  the  misfortune  of  poor 
Blanciflor.  In  addition,  I  know  the  last  couplets  of 
Filicaria,  that  song  of  Venice  besieged  by  the  Turks." 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  of  the  awful  Turks,"  shudders  the 
lady.  "  My  cousin,  the  lovely  Constancia  d'Este,  two 
years  ago  was  carried  off  from  the  little  peninsula  of 
Comacchio,  but  fifty  miles  from  here,  by  the  galley  of 
the  captain  pasha.  She  is  now  fourth  sultana  in  the 
harem  of  the  padishah.  They  say  the  captain  pasha 
had  promised  his  master,  the  sultan,  to  bring  him  back 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  7 1 

from  his  foray  the  two  most  beautiful  women  in  Ro- 
magna." 

"  Sapristi!  and  you  escaped?  "  murmurs  the  captain, 
gallantly. 

"  Oh,"  laughs  the  little  royal  minx,  "  it  was  a  mir- 
acle. I  was  selected.  I  had  been  expected  to  visit  Con- 
stancia  at  her  villa  by  the  Adriatic,  but  my  post  horses 
were  too  slow,  so  I  was  saved  for  a — a  better  lover."  She 
gives  Villiers  a  veiled  look;  then  claps  her  hands  and 
cries  merrily :  "  You  shall  be  a  troubadour  and  help 
me  on  the  eventful  evening  entertain  the  French.  Be- 
fore the  banquet  there  is  a  ballet  given  by  my  maids 
of  honor  and  ladies  of  my  court.  During  it  you  shall 
sing  the  love  songs  of  our  land,  and  I  will  accompany 
you  on  the  guitar.  It  is  a  sweet  idea.  I  shall  be  your 
Queen  of  Love,  and  you  shall  be  my  troubadour,  and 
wear  hose  and  doublet,  and  have  a  dagger  in  your  belt. 
It  is  a  pity  you  have  shaved  off  your  mustache  to  be  a 
goatherd."  She  passes  her  hand  lightly  over  his  lips 
and  laughs  :  "  Still,  judging  by  the  feel,  it  must  have 
been  a  sorry  one." 

"  Madame,"  says  Villiers,  sternly,  rising  to  the  full 
height  of  his  five  feet  five  inches,  and  wishing  he  had 
heels  upon  his  sandals,  "  for  jests  about  my  mous- 
tachios  I  have  in  the  duello  run  my  sword  through 
four  gentlemen.  For  ladies  I  have  another  punish- 
ment." 

Her  blue  eyes  look  at  him  calmly  as  he  steps  to- 
ward her.  They  seem  to  say :  "  I  dare  you !  " 

The  next  instant,  with  a  little  sigh,  she  draws  her 
lips  from  his  and  mutters :  "  You  have  committed 
high  treason  against  my  father." 

"  It  would  have  been  high  treason  against  your 
beauty  had  I  not  done  homage  to  it." 


7«  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

"  But  if  I  returned  your  kiss  then  I  dare  not  tell 
papa  of  you,"  says  the  princess,  whose  face  has  grown 
red  as  the  roses  of  her  garden.  And  in  a  trice  her  soft 
white  arms  close  round  his  neck,  and  his  salute  has 
been  reciprocated  with  lips  dewy  with  passion  as  her 
heart  throbs  against  his  like  surf  upon  a  rock-bound 
coast.  "  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  shepherd 
boy,"  she  murmurs  as  if  unto  herself,  but  meaning  for 
him  to  hear  the  caress  of  her  voice. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  LADY  IN  WAITING. 

But  sharply  Villiers  starts  from  her,  and  his  hand 
furtively  seeks  the  pistols  in  his  goatherd's  sack,  as 
Maria's  voice  dies  away  in  a  little  tremor.  Four  gar- 
deners have  passed  quite  close  by  the  kiosk  on  their 
way  to  some  more  distant  flower  beds. 

"  My  lady  in  waiting  has  been  remiss,"  mutters  la 
princessa,  her  blue  eyes  gleaming  in  steely  anger,  per- 
chance at  thought  of  interrupted  gallantry,  perhaps 
at  fear  of  French  discovery,  mayhap  at  both. 

"  They  are  only  gardeners,  your  Highness,"  whis- 
pers Villiers,  hurriedly. 

"  Diavolo!  had  the  gardeners  seen  a  goatherd  kissing 
their  princess,  their  rustic  tongues  might  have  chat- 
tered too  loudly.  This  must  not  occur  again.  Bianca 
has  been  careless."  Then  the  royal  lady  claps  her 
hands  sharply  and  calls  imperiously:  "A  word  with  you, 
my  lady!  Madame  la  Marchesa  di  Monteferrato,  come 
hither,  'tis  I,  your  mistress,  calls  you !  " 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  73 

These  words  bring  start  both  to  her  remiss  attend- 
ant and  to  the  goatherd,  who  staggers  as  if  he  had  a 
pistol  ball  within  him ;  for  here  coming  to  him  is  the 
lady  whom  he  had  loved  and  left  seven  years  ago  on 
that  bright  summer  morning  by  the  shores  of  Lago 
di  Maggiore. 

Once  or  twice  before  this,  when  he  has  gazed  fur- 
tively out  of  the  kiosk,  Villiers  has  thought  the  grace- 
ful poses  of  this  lady  as  she  has  plucked  an  occasional 
flower  have  seemed  familiar.  Now  her  name — in  his 
dangerous  situation — gives  him  for  the  moment  a 
panic  tremor;  he  guesses  the  moment  Bianca  Gonzaga 
discovers  his  identity  she  will  be  his  enemy. 

This  is  not  noted  by  Princess  Maria,  whose  angry 
eyes  are  only  upon  her  lady  in  waiting.  Fortunately 
la  marchesa's  glance  is  also  not  directed  at  the  goat- 
herd. Her  dark  orbs,  which  grow  gradually  more 
pleading  as  she  approaches,  gaze  only  at  her  stern  mis- 
tress. 

Inspecting  the  two,  Villiers  easily  sees  the  little  Prin- 
cess Maria,  with  all  her  blond  beauty,  is  a  tyrant  to  the 
ladies  of  her  household.  The  half  shrinking  attitude  of 
Bianca  as  she  approaches  her  autocrat  tells  him  this, 
though  he  wonders  what  misfortunes  can  have  so  hum- 
bled this  lady,  who  had  once  been  haughtiness  itself, 
to  cause  her  to  accept  the  post  of  attendant  even  to  so 
grand  a  dame  as  La  Princessa  Maria  Pico  of  Miran- 
dola.  Their  interview  takes  place  some  little  dis- 
tance from  him,  yet  gives  him  some  hint  of  their  rela- 
tions. As  the  princess  steps  toward  her  lady  in  wait- 
ing, she  speaks  sharply :  "  Bianca,  why  were  those 
gardeners  not  stopped,  or  I  at  least  warned  of  their  ap- 
proach ?  " 

On  seeing  Maria's  face,  her  attendant,  with  what  is 


74  THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

apparently  a  muttered  apology  or  excuse,  sinks  on  one 
knee  and  would  kiss  her  mistress's  hand,  though  this  is 
haughtily  withheld  from  her.  And  the  two  make  a  pretty 
picture,  the  petite  blond  despot  standing  haughtily  be- 
fore the  culprit,  whose  beauty  Villiers  now  sees  has 
been,  if  possible,  increased  by  an  adversity  which  has 
chastened  it.  The  big  dark  eyes  that  had  once  been 
imperious,  have  grown  softer  and  more  appealing  in 
expression,  though  once  or  twice  into  their  depths 
come  flashes  that  show  the  spirit  of  Bianca  Gonzaga 
has  not  entirely  been  crushed  and  broken.  Besides, 
her  figure  as  it  droops  to  make  obeisance  seems  even 
more  pliant  and  willowy  than  it  had  been  when  he 
last  saw  her;  her  gown,  though  exceedingly  rich,  be- 
ing of  a  plain,  soft,  clinging,  black  satin,  that  outlines 
each  of  the  many  curves  of  beauty  in  her  form.  To 
this  is  added,  as  she  kneels  down,  an  escaping  foot  and 
ankle  of  exquisite  proportion  in  hose  of  black  but 
diaphanous  filigree,  and  a  little  slipper  of  the  same 
texture  and  color  as  her  robe. 

Watching  this  slipper,  Villiers  can  guess  the  emo- 
tions of  Bianca  Gonzaga,  though  her  face  is  now  hid- 
den from  him.  As  the  princess  whispers  to  her  he  can 
see  the  culprit's  foot  tremble.  A  moment  after  it  ex- 
tends itself  as  if  straining  to  control  a  rebellion  in  her 
hot  blood. 

Their  voices  now  growing  a  little  higher,  he  can 
distinguish  their  words.  "  Bianca,"  says  the  princess 
sternly,  "  remember  when  I  rescued  you  from  your 
creditors  in  Cremona,  after  your  reputed  father  had  dis- 
owned you,. that  you  swore  allegiance  to  Mirandola 
and  became  my  subject." 

"  Madame,  have  I  ever  forgotten  it?  " 

"  That  was  two  years  ago,  and  several  times  have  I 


THE   FIGHTING   TROL'SADOUR.  75 

had  occasion  to  humble  your  haughty  spirit.  Don't 
make  me  do  so  again.  Remember,  though  I  pardon 
this  carelessness,  I  will  not  pardon  another,"  continues 
Maria,  then  adds,  complaisantly:  "  Now  kiss  my  hand 
and  love  your  mistress." 

Maria  Pico  extends  her  delicate  fingers,  and  her 
lady  of  honor,  saluting  them  and  again  doing  obeis- 
ance, rises  to  her  feet,  though  Villiers,  catching  a 
gleam  in  Bianca's  eyes  as  she  turns  away,  knows 
that,  though  she  may  kiss  her  hand,  she  does  not  love 
her  capricious  mistress. 

The  next  second  the  royal  lady,  consulting  a  jeweled 
watch,  cries :  "  Gran  Dio !  I  shall  be  looked  for  in 
the  palace.  I  can  stay  here  no  longer." 

Turning  to  Villiers,  she  leads  her  court  lady  to  him, 
and  says :  "  Madame  la  Marchesa  di  Monteferrato,  I 
present  to  yen  II  Signor  Montaldo,  who  is  of  noble 
birth,  and  the  famous  troubadour  who  has  been  en- 
gaged to  assist  me  in  the  ballet  we  give  three  days 
from  now,  and  in  which  none  but  those  of  gentle  fam- 
ily take  part ! " 

"  II  Sieur  Montaldo  kisses  your  hand,  bella  donna," 
remarks  Sydney  gallantly,  and  salutes  fingers  that  he  has 
often  kissed  before ;  but  the  lady  does  not  recall  him,  he 
thanks  God,  though  she  looks  curiously  at  his  goat- 
herd's costume. 

Also  noting  this,  the  princess  breaks  in :  "  Signor 
Mon — Montaldo" — she  stammers  a  little  over  the 
name  of  her  own  coining — "  was  captured  by  bandits 
two  days  ago  on  his  way  here  from  Abruzzi,  and  es- 
caped from  them  with  little  more  than  his  life,  his 
divine  voice,  and  this  beggarly  goatherd's  suit." 

"  We  must  look  up  something  more  for  him  in  the 
way  of  clothes;  otherwise  he  will  be  the  laughing 


7<5  THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

stock  of  the  lackeys,"  interjects  la  marchesa,  a  smile 
parting  her  red  lips.  Though  she  apparently  does 
not  believe  all  her  mistress  says  to  her,  probably 
she  imagines  it  is  some  amour  of  her  volatile 
princess's,  and  certainly  does  not  recognize  Villiers, 
who  is  now  speaking  Tuscan  with  the  accent  and 
fluency  of  a  native. 

The  heavy  tan  of  his  long  campaign  has  made  his 
face  brown  as  a  Moor's.  When  Bianca  had  been  his 
mistress,  she  had  known  him  only  as  Sydney  Raw- 
don.  At  this  moment  he  has  a  faint  hope  that  in  the 
years  which  have  passed  she  may  have  forgotten  him. 

"  You  will  honor  II  Signor  Montaldo's  commands 
as  you  do  mine,"  remarks  the  princess  sharply. 

"  Yes,  your  Highness,"  murmurs  the  court  lady, 
and  as  she  courtesies  the  Englishman  notes  that, 
though  her  eyes  droop  before  her  mistress's  glance, 
there  is  in  them  a  gleam  that  reminds  him  of  the  morn- 
ing when  she  would  have  drowned  little  Lucia  Vesey. 
If  la  princessa  sees  this  look  she  pays  no  heed  to  it; 
at  present  her  face,  as  she  turns  it  upon  Captain  Vil- 
liers, is  glowing  with  Southern  passion.  But  conquer- 
ing this,  she  says  nonchalantly:  "That  you  may 
not  think  I  lack  in  hospi'  lity,  I  have  already  directed 
a  breakfast  to  be  prepare  for  you."  Her  voice  grows 
more  strident  as  she  commands  her  attendant : 
"  Bianca,  when  you  have  conducted  my  honored  guest 
to  the  rooms  prepared  for  him  in  the  palace,  direct 
Metia  to  wait  upon  him."  Suddenly  her  face  flushes, 
her  thin  lips  compress  themselves,  she  cries  savagely : 
"  No,  not  that  minx — rather  Gianetta — "  but  checks  her- 
self, and  remarks  contemplatively :  "  Yet  no,  I  dare 
trust  no  more  women  in  this  affair.  Metia  it  must  be. 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  77 

Now,  Bianca,  for  one  minute  I  would  have  privacy 
with  this  gentleman." 

"  Your  Highness  is  obeyed,"  whispers  the  court 
lady,  and  bows  herself  from  the  august  presence. 

Then  the  august  presence  grows  radiant  once  more ; 
la  princessa- murmurs :  "  One  last  kiss  for  the  shep- 
herd boy,"  and  gives  it  with  softly  clinging  lips  and  all 
the  fervor  of  an  Italian  soul. 

"  The  last  kiss  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  next  shall  be  for  a  troubadour.  Pish, 
leave  my  hand  alone,  you  naughty  one.  Your  ring 
bruises  my  fingers.  Besides,  a  shepherd  with  a  signet 
of  sapphire  engraved  with  knightly  arms  and  crest. 
You  make  a  poor  spy,  my  dashing  cavalry  boy." 

With  melodious  yet  mocking  laughter  she  darts 
from  the  summer  house  with  fairy  feet,  leaving  Vil- 
liers  looking  ashamed  at  the  signet  ring  Sir  Andrew 
Vesey  had  placed  upon  his  finger  as  guardian  of  his 
daughter. 

To  himself  he  thinks  sadly :  "  By  Lucifer,  you're 
not  to  be  trusted.  You're  getting  at  your  old  tricks, 
my  boy.  You'll  make  a  pretty  guardian  for  innocent 
maidenhood." 

This,  after  consideration,  he  palliates  by  muttering: 
"  Military  duty !  Did  I  put  slight  upon  this  amorous 
witch,  she  would  perchance  from  very  pique  denounce 
me  as  a  spy  to  the  French  commandant  and  plot  another 
surprise  when  Eugene's  army  thunders  at  the  gates 
of  her  capital,  and  so  destroy  me  forever.  I  know  her 
kind  too  well." 

For  he  is  thinking  of  the  Princess  Maria's  tawny 
hair  and  sapphire  eyes,  that  combination  which  quite 
often  indicates  a  woman  with  the  passions  of  a  Qeo/r 


78  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

patra,  the  arts  of  a  Circe,  and  the  vindictive  jealousy  of 
a  Medea. 

Pondering  on  this  in  a  somewhat  disheartened  and 
melancholy  style,  Sydney's  reflections  are  broken  in 
upon  after  a  few  minutes  by  La  Marchesa  di  Monte- 
ferrato  tripping  to  him,  and  saying  to  him  :  .  "  This  way 
quietly,  Signor  Montaldo." 

Gazing  at  her,  Villiers  is  now  sure  that  lady  does  not 
recognize  his  bronzed  face  as  that  of  the  gentleman 
who  had  been  her  gallant  seven  years  before  at  Lago 
Maggiore.  He  almost  blesses  the  saber-cut  a  Turk 
had  given  him  at  Zenta,  as  it  has  slightly  altered  the 
expression  of  his  face,  making  it  somewhat  sterner. 

"  You  have  your  instructions,  Madame  la  Marchesa, 
as  to  my  welfare?  "  he  asks  lightly. 

"  Yes,  both  for  your  comfort  and  your  safety,  sig- 
nore." 

"Safety?"  asks  the  goatherd,  opening  his  eyes: 
"  What  danger  is  there  to  a  wandering  troubadour, 
whose  only  enemy  is  the  tenor  Rialdini,  having  sung 
a  higher  note  than  he  at  the  festival  at  Siena?  " 

"  He  whom  a  princess  favors  always  has  enemies," 
answers  Bianca,  philosophically.  "  But  quick,  this 
way,  sir,  or  my  mistress  will  think  I  am  again  careless 
in  doing  her  bidding."  After  a  couple  of  hundred  yards 
of  path  secluded  by  myrtle  and  lilac  bushes,  they  reach  a 
private  door  in  one  of  the  remote  pavilions  of  the  palace. 
This  they  enter,  and,  climbing  up  an  old-fashioned  stone 
stairway  built  medieval  fashion  within  the  wall  itself,  ar- 
rive at  a  little  suite  of  apartments  quite  retired  and  re- 
mote from  the  main  portion  of  the  extensive  building. 
Ushered  into  the  parlor  of  this  suite,  the  soldier,  ac- 
customed to  the  coarse  rations  of  a  rough  campaign, 
giyes  a  sigh  of  ecstasy  as  he  looks  upon  as  d.ajnty  a 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  79 

breakfast  as  ever  pleased  an  eighteenth  century  gour- 
met. In  this  room  stands  Metia,  her  court  dress 
tucked  over  her  white  satin  petticoat,  prepared  to  play 
the  waiting-maid,  and  looking  very  surly  at  her  duty. 

"  You  will  pardon  my  absence,  Signor  Montaldo," 
says  la  marchesa.  "  Metia  will  see  that  you  want  for 
nothing,  while  I,  under  the  direction  of  the  princess, 
will  furnish  you  with  a  more  fitting  costume  for  court 
attendance  than  the  bandits  left  you.  I  bid  you  adieu 
for  the  moment,  Sieur  Troubadour.  You  are  anxious 
to  begin  your  meal,"  she  laughs,  for  Sydney's  hand 
has  already  reached  for  knife  and  fork. 

As  Bianca  leaves  the  little  sitting-room,  Villiers,  in  his 
easy  campaign  way,  suggests :  "  Sit  down  and  join  me, 
pretty  Metia." 

But  the  maid  of  honor  seems  a  sulky  Hebe.  "  Sig- 
nore,  I  was  sent  to  wait  upon  you  as  your  table 
wench,  half  sobs  the  girl,  pouting  and  blushing.  "  Be- 
sides, you  have  put  me  in  disgrace  with  my  mistress." 

"  And  this  is  punishment  for  it?  "  asks  Sydney,  who 
pities  the  embarrassment  of  this  young  lady  who  stands 
like  serving  maid  behind  his  chair. 

"  No,  it  is  only  because  she  dare  trust  no  other  lady 
of  her  train  with  her  secret.  Otherwise  'twere  any  but 
me." 

"Indeed!     Why  so?" 

"  You  have  kissed  me,  sir;  that's  the  reason,"  mut- 
ters Metia,  with  a  blush.  "  Some  chocolate,  sir?  "  and 
pours  it  out. 

"  Pardie,  la  princessa  laughed  about  that  buss  but 
half  an  hour  ago,"  says  the  cavalier. 

"  Yes,  forty  minutes  since,  when  I  foolishly  hinted  it 
to  her,  it  seemed  to  make  her  merry.  But  on  her  re- 
turn from  interview  with  you  she  boxed  my  ears  and 


8o  THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

said  I  was  a  saucy  jade.  Were  it  not  that  she  needs  me 
here  to-day,  and  that  I  must  rehearse  for  her  ballet, 
I  should  be  in  one  of  the  cells  in  the  attic  under  lock 
and  key,  with  bread  and  water  for  my  company,  if  I 
didn't  suffer  worse."  Here  the  girl  starts  and  gasps : 
"  But,  oh  heavens,  if  she  hears  of  my  fool  prating !  " 
a  sudden  fear  having  half  palsied  her  tongue  and 
blanched  her  rosy  cheeks.  "  Don't  think  of  what  I 
said  to  you,"  she  falters.  "  Try  some  of  this  trout 
brought  in  snow  from  Lake  di  Garda.  There  are  also 
some  sardines  from  Comacchio." 

"  Thanks,  don't  you  see  I  have  already  eaten  both," 
laughs  the  soldier,  who  has  been  busy  at  his  meal. 
Then  he  smiles  at  her,  and  says :  "  Be  assured,  no 
word  of  mine  shall  compromise  such  a  pretty  chit.  Sup- 
posing we  mitigate  your  penance.  Be  my  hostess ; 
take  breakfast  with  me.  Let's  have  a  merry  meal  of 
it." 

"  And  you  won't  tell  ?  "  Metia's  eyes  are  sparkling, 
for  now  she  guesses  she  has  naught  to  fear  from  the 
Englishman's  tongue. 

"  Never,  by  San  Marco !  provided  you  sit  down  and 
chat  to  me." 

"  Of  what,  signore?  " 

"  Of  anything.    Humph — say,  the  French  garrison." 

"  I  know  little  of  them.  For  some  reason  my  mis- 
tress apparently  has  wished  me  to  see  naught  of  the 
French  garrison  who  took  possession  of  the  citadel 
scarce  a  month  ago;  probably  because  she  feared 
that  some  dashing  young  officer  of  them  might  make 
me  waver  in  my  faith  to  her.  At  all  events,  La 
Marchesa  di  Monteferrato,  by  the  princess's  orders, 
has  kept  me  close  as  if  I  were  a  novice,"  says  the  girl, 
snapping  her  white  teeth  together. 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  8l 

"  And  you  didn't  rebel  ?  " 

"  Gran  Dio,  I  dare  not !  "  Metia  almost  trembles  at 
the  idea ;  then  murmurs :  "  This  little  court,  signore, 
is  ruled  in  the  old-time  fashion  of  Catherine  de  Medici. 
There  is  only  one  autocrat  here — my  mistress." 

"And  La  Marchesa  di  Monteferrato  ?  "  Sydney  is 
trying  to  discover  the  exact  relation  Bianca  bears  to 
the  princess. 

"Oh,  la  marchesa!"  laughs  the  maid  of  honor. 
"  Though  mistress  of  the  robes,  Bianca  Gonzaga  is  no 
more  than  one  of  us.  When  she  came  here  first,  two 
years  ago,  she  was  as  haughty  as  if  she  wore  a  crown, 
but  now  she  would  no  more  disobey  la  princessa  than 
any  other  of  her  attendants.  I  saw  her  the  first  time 
her  haughty  spirit  rose  in  rebellion.  For  a  week  after 
she  disappeared.  Mon  Dieu! "  sneers  the  girl, 
"  Madame  Imperious  had  been  under  lock  and  key  and 
tasted  her  bread  and  water  just  as  it  would  have  hap- 
pened to  any  one  of  us  maids  of  honor !  " 

"  And  the  duke?  "  laughs  Sydney,  though  he  can't 
help  thinking  Bianca  Gonzaga  scarce  loves  her  tyrant 
well  enough  to  prevent  her  offering  him  up  to  French 
military  justice  if  she  ever  guesses  his  identity,  even 
though  his  destruction  may  be  that  of  her  mistress. 

"Oh!  la  princessa  rules  him  as  well  as  us,"  re- 
marks the  girl.  "  Haven't  I  heard  the  poor  old  gentle- 
man calling  out  that  her  extravagance  will  ruin  him. 
This  duchy  is  but  two  hundred  square  miles,  yet  our 
princess  has  a  matron  of  the  robes,  ten  maids  of  honor, 
and  six  ladies  of  her  bedchamber — as  many  as  the 
Queen  of  France — with  half  a  hundred  pages  and  lack- 
eys in  attendance;  also  an  orchestra  of  most  excellent 
musicians  and  a  private  troupe  of  singing  comedians 
that  amuse  her  in  her  own  court  theater,  in  which,  you 


8i  THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

must  have  heard,  three  nights  from  now  she  gives  a 
grand  banquet  to  the  French  officers.  Tis  as  gay  a 
court  as  any  in  Italy,  though  I've  had  but  little  of  it 
since  the  French  came  here."  This  last  is  with  a  dis- 
contented pout. 

"  And  your  sister  maids  of  honor ;  they  are  better 
off?" 

"  del!  I  should  think  so.  Each  one  now  has  a 
dashing  soldier  for  her  cavalier,  yet  I  am  kept  close 
as  a  Moslem  odalisque.  But  it  was  not  so  till  the 
French  came.  Since  then,  I  being  my  mistress's  favor- 
ite, have  been  set  apart  to  do  her  private  bidding.  For 
the  last  three  days  each  morning  I  attended  geese  in 
nasty  peasant's  dress,  as  you  did  see.  I  thought  you 
were  some  lover  of  la  princessa  until  I  saw  how 
young  a  boy  you  were.  Oh,  what  an  awful  frown !  " 

"What  think  you  now?"  Villiers's  tone  is  very 
stern. 

"  That  at  first  it  was  some  other  affair  for  which  she 
wished  to  see  you.  But  now  after  interview  with  you, 
when  my  royal  mistress  boxed  my  ears  until  my  teeth 
rattled  because  she  thought  you  had  kissed  me,  she 
is  in  love  with  you,  my  pretty  page,  and  jealous  as  a 
pussy  cat  at  high  moon." 

"  Humph  !  Your  sister  maids  are  beautiful  ?  "  inter- 
jects Villiers,  thinking  Mademoiselle  Metia's  mind  is 
very  bright. 

"  The  loveliest  in  Italy.  This  court  is  so  gay,  yet  so 
discreet,  that  our  royal  lady  has  always  a  list  of  ap- 
plicants from  neighboring  nobles  that  their  daughters 
may  enter  her  service.  In  fact,  when  my  father,  II 
Cavaliere  Bonendo,  said  to  me :  '  Girl,  which  is  it, 
the  service  of  la  princessa  or  the  service  of  heaven?  '  I 
chose  the  service  of  la  princessa  in  a  breath." 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  83 

"  How  many  regiments  of  French  are  here  ?  " 

"  Pish,  you  always  go  back  to  the  same  old  subject, 
the  French.  Why  not  speak  about  some  one  else? 
Yourself,  for  instance." 

"  Tell  me,  sweet,"  and  the  captain's  arm  is  about  her 
waist. 

"  Two  regiments,  I  think,  signore." 

"  Here  are  two  kisses  for  your  news." 

"  Oh,  sir ;  there  is  also  a  regiment  of  cannoniers,  I 
believe." 

"  Thank  you  again." 

"  Likewise  a  company  of  sappers  and  miners." 

"  That  makes  another  kiss." 

"And  a  hundred  of  our  own  troops,  Mirandolians. 
But  the  clock  is  sounding.  I  must  go  to  rehearse  my 
dance  in  the  coming  court  ballet."  The  girl  springs 
up.  "  You  must  let  me  go !  "  she  cries ;  for  Sydney  has 
a  detaining  arm  around  her  pretty  waist.  "  I  shall  be 
late.  The  mistress  of  the  ballet,  Signorina  Tessa  Pas- 
quale,  is  so  indignant  if  we  are  not  there  in  time." 

"Signorina  Tessa  Pasquale?"  asks  Villiers,  open- 
ing his  eyes,  for  the  name  seems  to  be  somehow  linked 
with  that  of  Vesey's  daughter. 

"  Yes,  she  is  the  mistress  of  the  ballet  at  the  court 
theater  here,  and  the  sister  of  the  great  master  of  the 
voice  who  manages  la  princessa's  singing  comedians, 
Maestro  Giacomo  Pasquale." 

"  The  Maestro  Giacomo  Pasquale,  of  Cremona?  " 

"  Yes,  he  was  recommended  by  Bianca  Gonzaga, 
and  came  from  there.  Now  you  must  let  me  go." 

But  the  girl  has  no  further  need  to  plead.  At  her 
words  Villiers's  hand  has  dropped  abstractedly,  and  he 
is  muttering  to  himself:  "  By  heaven,  if  this  is  so,  I 
may  be  near  Bianca  Gonzaga's  intended  victim," 


»4  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

For  now  he  guesses  if  Lucia  Vesey  is  in  this  town,  it 
is  by  the  influence  of  La  Marchesa  di  Monteferrato, 
and  that  she  has  not  yet  forgotten  her  oath  to  the  child, 
whose  innocent  words  had  once  cut  short  his  love  for 
her. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  BY    HEAVEN,    THAT    IS   HER   VOICE  !  " 

For  a  moment  these  thoughts  of  the  girl  whose 
miniature  he  wears  upon  his  breast  destroy  even  mili- 
tary prudence.  Were  it  not  for  his  goatherd's  cos- 
tume he  would  immediately  make  effort  to  get  into  the 
town  to  see  if  II  Maestro  Giacomo  Pasquale  has  here 
under  his  charge  Lucia  Vesey,  but  looking  at  his 
sheepskin  mantle,  Villiers  murmurs :  "  Deuce  take  it ! 
your  legs  are  whiter  than  ever,  my  contadino,"  more  of 
the  dust  with  which  he  had  tinted  them  having  floated 
from  them. 

Personal  inspection  is  interrupted  by  La  Marchesa 
di  Monteferrato  entering  cautiously.  .  Giving  him 
greeting,  she  says  pleasantly :  "  I  hope  you  enjoyed 
your  breakfast,  Signor  Troubadour.  By  my  lady's 
commands  1  bring  you  these.  They  are  not  as  hand- 
some as  the  Princess  Maria  would  wish,  but  they  will 
do  for  the  ordinary  uses  of  a  wandering  singer.  I  am 
to  promise  you  a  much  richer  garbing  for  the  ballet 
and  the  fete." 

From  beneath  her  long  court  train,  which  she  has 
gathered  up  about  her,  Bianca,  taking  graceful  pose, 
brings  forth  a  French  court  costume  of  the  day,  with 
square  cut  coat  of  modest  black  velvet,  knee  breeches, 
silken  Blockings,  and  red-heeled  shoes,  "  My  mis- 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  85 

tress  would  have  sent  with  it  a  sword,  but  those  of 
your  calling  do  not  generally  carry  blade.  However, 
she  has  added  to  it  this  little  dagger,  with  which  you 
may  be  dangerous.  In  fact,"  smiles  la  marchesa, 
"  no  gentleman-of-the-court's  costume  was  small 
enough.  For  these  we  had  to  rob  a  youthful  page. 
Pretty  Urbano  is  perchance  crying  for  them  now." 

"  Madame,"  says  the  English  captain  in  a  savage 
voice,  "  do  you  think  the  effeminate  hose  of  a  whimper- 
ing child  would  fit  my  legs?" 

"  Per  Bacco,  no,  I  thought  of  that  and  brought  a  pair 
of  stouter  stockings,"  laughs  the  lady.  Then  looking 
at  his  massive  strength  of  limb,  she  cries:  "Amore  di 
Dio,  you  are  a  little  Hercules!  "  But  as  she  gazes,  into 
her  dark  eyes  floats  some  souvenir  of  the  past  that 
takes  the  merriment  from  them  and  makes  them  misty 
with  remembered  passion.  "  Your  pardon,  signore," 
she  murmurs,  "  it  was  my  fate  once  to  know  a  gentleman 
of  about  your  stature,  who  one  evening  at  the  light 
words  of  some  gallants  at  Cannero,  about  a  lady  whom 
he  honored,  threw  two  of  them  into  the  blue  waters  of 
Lago  Maggiore.  Gran  Dio,  how  the  muscles  in  my 
English  student's  arms  knit  themselves  into  knots  as 
he  handled  those  effeminate  Italian  loungers  as  if  they 
were  no  more  than  dice  in  gamesters'  dice  box.  Then 
her  voice  grows  bitter  as  she  mutters:  "  That  was  be- 
fore that  prating  child " 

"  Egad!  "  interjects  Villiers  lightly,  wishing  to  turn 
the  subject,  for  he  remembers  this  circumstance  very 
well,  "  your  cavalier  must  have  been  a  regular  crow- 
ing cock." 

"As  you  are,  I  suppose,"  sneers  the  lady,  flaming  up, 
"  a  fighting  troubadour."  With  this,  angry  at  sug- 
gested slight  of  a  man  who  had  once  been  her  gallant, 


86  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

she  goes  on  in  reckless  jeering  tone:  "  Perchance,  my 
troubadour,  you  will  have  an  opportunity  to  ruffle 
your  feathers  also.  In  this  love  affair  of  yours  you 
are  against  a  military  gentleman  who  may  put  your 

metal  to  the  test.  The  princess  has "  she  checks 

herself,  the  words  dying  on  her  lips. 

"  Has  another  gallant,  Colonel  de  Vivans,  com- 
mander of  the  French  garrison,"  says  Villiers,  who  re- 
members the  words  of  Prince  Eugene,  taking  up  her 
speech.  At  this  finishing  of  her  sentence  the  lady 
grows  suddenly  pale.  She  falters  with  trembling  lips: 
"  Madre  di  Dio,  I  mean  nothing,  signore.  Forget  my 
speech,  made  careless  by  spleen.  I  was  a  fool  to  babble 
of  such  matters.  I "  then  clasping  his  arm  nerv- 
ously with  her  white  fingers,  she  pleads:  "For  the 
love  of  heaven,  no  suggestion  of  my  thoughtless  prat- 
ing to  a  lady  who — never  forgives." 

"  You  mean  the  Princess  Maria,"  smiles  Villiers. 
Then  his  his  tone  becomes  earnest,  as  he  adds  diplomat- 
ically: "  Believe  me,  madame,  on  the  word  of  a  gen- 
tleman, my  lips  shall  never  bring  to  you  her  displeas- 
ure." For  he  guesses  if  both  the  Lady  Metia  and  la 
marchesa  think  he  can  be  trusted  to  betray  no  careless 
word,  their  gossip  will  shortly  give  to  him  most  of  the 
mysteries  of  their  lady's  court,  some  of  which  may  be  of 
great  use  to  him  in  his  adventure. 

"  You  mean  it?  "  asks  Bianca  nervously.  Then  she 
pleads:  "  Swear  it  to  me  by  the  cross  of  Christ!  " 

"I  do!"  answers  the  Englishman.  His  eyes  meet 
hers. 

She  seems  to  believe  them,  and,  uttering  a  little  sigh 
of  relief,  murmurs:  "  I  thank  you,  sir,  for  if  my  heed- 
less words  came  to  my  mistress,  it  would  be  the  second 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  87 

time  I  have  offended  her  to-day.  Her  punishment 
would  not  be  light." 

"  Indeed,"  returns  Villiers,  "  these  are  strange  words 
from  Bianca  Gonzaga,  who  rumor  once  said  was  as 
haughty  as  any  woman  in  Italy." 

"  That  was  before  misfortune  struck  me  down,"  sVie 
breaks  out,  a  kind  of  despair  in  her  voice,  "  before  the 
Count  Borremeo,  enraged  by  my  passion  for  an  Eng- 
lish gentleman,  discarded  me;  before  my  father  said 
for  my  eccentricities  I  was  no  more  his  child,  when 
merchants  and  money  lenders  who  had  fawned  upon» 
me  persecuted  me  with  their  demands,  until  she  res- 
cued me  from  them  and  brought  me  here  to  swear  al- 
legiance to  Mirandola  and  become  her  vassal.  Now 
I  am  as  subject  to  her  commands  as  any  lackey  in  that 
court  yard.  For  this  little  duchy  is  still  one  of  the 
tyrant  strongholds  of  Italy,  where  its  sovereign  is  as 
despotic  as  Peter  the  Great  who  reigns  in  barbarous 
Muscovy.  I  pray  you,  therefore,  do  not  ever  hint  to 
the  Princess  Maria  I  say  aught  of  her  enterprises.  She 
smiles  on  me  to-day,  but  at  her  frown  I  may  be  se- 
cluded from  the  world." 

During  this  Villiers  can't  help  noticing  as  he  in- 
spects the  splendid  woman  before  him  that  misfortune 
has  made  her  more  spirituelle;  not  that  her  beauty  is 
less,  for  it  is  even  greater.  The  humbling  of  her  haughty 
spirit  has  given  softer  graces  to  her  movements  than 
those  that  had  pertained  to  the  once  imperious  Bianca 
Gonzaga.  Still  he  fears  her  recognition.  Quiet  snakes 
are  often  the  most  deadly. 

"  But  I  forget  my  errand,  sir,"  continues  the  lady. 
"  My  mistress  sends  you  this  passport,  giving  you  per- 
mit to  leave  or  enter  the  palace  at  your  will,  but  it 
will  take  vou  no  further  than  the  gates  of  the  town 


88  THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

over  which  the  French  have  guard.  The  princess  also 
commands  your  attendance  at  the  royal  table  to  sup 
with  her  this  evening.  I  am  now  to  introduce  you  to 
the  chamberlain  of  the  palace,  and  place  you  under  his 
protection.  Therefore,  I  pray  you,  sir,  retire  and  dis- 
card your  shepherd's  garb,  so  that  I  may  introduce 
you  to  the  Conte  Rosario." 

At  this  suggestion,  Villiers  steps  into  his  little  cham- 
ber. 

Some  fifteen  minutes  afterward  he  re-enters  his 
modest  parlor,  no  more  the  shepherd  boy,  a  soupqon 
of  the  romance  having  gone  from  him  with  the 
goatherd's  sheepskin,  though  even  now  the  saber  cut 
on  his  face  makes  him  look  a  warrior  page. 

To  his  horror,  his  change  of  raiment  seems  to  have 
brought  him  nearer  to  la  marchesa's  recollection.  As 
he  comes  in  the  lady  rises,  gazes  at  him,  and  cries: 
"  You  handsome  boy!  "  then  mutters  angrily:  "  Cielo, 
each  moment  you  remind  me  more  and  more  of  an 

English  youth  whose  love  brought "    She  clenches 

her  white  hands,  and  is  no  longer  drooping,  but  after 
a  moment  she  continues,  a  strange  repression  in  her 
tone:  "  You  will  excuse  me,  sir.  I  must  bring  to  you 
II  Conte  Rosario." 

She  turns  to  leave  the  room,  but  as  she  reaches  the 
door  she  pauses  and  looks  at  Villiers  as  if  some  trick  of 
manner  had  caught  her  eye,  then  slowly  passes  out 

"Powers  of  hell!"  he  mutters  to  himself,  "if  she 
discovers  I  am  her  gallant  of  the  Italian  lake.  In  this 
there  may  be  great  danger  not  only  for  me,  but  to  the 
arms  of  the  emperor." 

He  has  some  reason  to  fear  Bianca's  recognition,  for 
outside  the  door  she  is  communing  with  herself:  "  The 
more  I  look  at  him  the  greater  his  resemblance  to  the 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  89 

man  who  insulted  my  love  by  deserting  it."  Then  she 
jeers  herself  with  a  sneering  "  Pish,  a  troubadour  who 
speaks  Italian  as  his  native  tongue — impossible! — and 
yet  my  Englishman's  accent  was  as  true  as  his.  Santos, 
if  it  should  be!  "  and  something  comes  into  the  lady's 
eyes  which  shows  she  is  still  the  Bianca  of  old. 

A  few  moments  after  she  returns  with  an  aged  gen- 
tleman, dressed  in  the  latest  court  costume,  with  straight 
cut  coat  and  knee  breeches  that  meet  his  gartered 
stockings  and  jeweled-buckled  shoes  with  red  high 
heels,  after  the  manner  of  the  French  court.  To  him 
she  says:  "  II  Conte  Rosario,  this  is  the  troubadour,  II 
Seigneur  Montaldo,  who  has  been  brought  by  our 
mistress  from  Abruzzi  for  the  coming  fete.  Though  a 
poet  and  musician,  he  is  of  gentle  birth.  Her  high- 
ness commands  you  treat  him  like  a  noble.  In  the 
coming  ballet  he  sings  to  la  princessa's  accompani- 
ment.* My  orders  were  to  intrust  him  to  your  good 
offices." 

"  Which  shall  be  very  great,  Sieur  Troubadour,"  re- 
marks the  chamberlain,  as  the  two  gentlemen  salute 
each  other  in  courtly  style. 

To  them  Bianca  remarks:  "  Our  mistress,  Count, 
suggests  that  you  show  Sieur  Montaldo  the  palace.  It 
is  well  worthy  of  looking  at,  Signor  Troubadour." 
There  is  a  strange  interrogation  in  the  lady's  grand  eyes 
as  they  gaze  on  Villiers.  "  If  you  like  art,"  she  adds  in 
a  preoccupied  way,  "  there  is  a  painting  by  Guido 
Reni,  another  by  Tintoretto,  and  a  third  by  Veronese. 
But  this  is  my  hour  of  attendance  on  her  highness. 


*  Court  ballets,  in  which  not  only  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  palace 
appeared,  but  also,  at  times,  the  members  of  the  royal  family,  were  very  com- 
mon in  the  i7th  and  i8th  centuries,  Louis  XIV  setting  the  fashion  in  this 
matter,  and  even  appearing  in  one  himself.— ED. 


90  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

You  will  excuse  me."     With  sweeping  salutation  to 
both  gentlemen,  Bianca  leaves  the  room. 

A  moment  after,  at  the  solicitation  of  the  chamber- 
lain, Villiers,  sauntering  about  the  palace,  would  enjoy 
the  three  great  pictures  that  one  hundred  years  after 
a  marshal  of  Napoleon  ravished  from  the  palace  of 
Mirandola,  were  his  mind  not  upon  the  portrait  of 
Lucia  Vesey.  He  also  endures  a  dissertation  on  court 
etiquette  mixed  with  Italian  art  from  his  cicerone,  who 
tells  him  that  at  the  coming  festival  there  will  be  fifty 
gentlemen  pages  and  fifty  lackey  underlings  to  wait 
upon  the  guests  of  royalty;  that  the  far-famed  Pico 
drinking  vase  of  solid  silver,  which  weighs  ten  pounds, 
and  was  fashioned  by  the  great  Benvenuto  Cellini, 
will  be  used  as  loving  cup  at  the  banquet  to  the  French 
officers. 

Finally,  under  plea  of  many  duties,  the  court  official 
excuses  himself  from  further  attendance,  and  begs  the 
Sieur  Montaldo  to  make  himself  at  home  within  the 
ducal  walls,  adding:  "At  midday  is  the  dinner  of 
the  officials  of  the  palace,  where,  I  hope,  you  will  honor 
us  with  your  company.  I  believe  this  evening  you  are 
bidden  to  sup  at  the  royal  board." 

Thanks  for  your  hospitality,  Monsieur  le  Comte," 
answers  Villiers,"  but  I  have  business  in  the  city.  There 
is  a  certain  Giacomo  Pasquale,  whose  instructions,  I 
am  told,  may  even  improve  my  vocalization.  I  desire 
some  lessons  from  him,  that  my  singing  at  our  mis- 
tress's fete  may  be  supreme." 

"  Ah,  yes,  the  celebrated  maestro  of  the  voice,  Gia- 
como Pasquale,"  asserts  the  court  official.  "  His 
school  is  on  the  Contrado  Pico,  near  the  Modena  gate. 
"  I  hope  you  will  be  also  pleased  with  our  city,"  and 
bows  himself  away. 


THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  01 

This  gives  the  English  officer  the  chance  for  his 
military  duty,  which  he  feels  must  come  before  his 
efforts  for  the  girl,  the  lives  of  too  many  brave  men 
hanging  upon  his  information.  He  must  immediately 
inspect  personally,  as  far  as  possible,  the  military  posi- 
tion and  power  of  the  garrison,  to  three  of  whose  offi- 
cers he  has  already  been  introduced;  for  the  French 
stroll  about  the  main  portion  of  the  palace  with  the 
freedom  more  of  conquerors  than  of  guests  and  allies. 

However,  these  men  of  the  sword  have  paid  but  lit- 
tle attention  to  the  gentleman  of  the  voice,  though 
Colonel  de  Vivans,  the  commandant  of  the  garrison,  a 
big  military  dandy,  with  long  mustache,  a  dashing  yet 
careless  soldier  had  remarked :  "  Your  walk  is  more 
that  of  a  cavalryman  than  a  stage  strutter.  You've 
saddled  a  horse  somewhere,  monsieur." 

"  Yes,  I — each  year  head  the  mounted  procession  in 
the  open-air  circus  and  ride  in  the  races  at  the  annual 
fete  at  Siena,  your  Excellency,"  answered  with  proper 
humility  the  Englishman,  who  was  very  glad  that  De 
Vivians  did  not  remember  he  had  crossed  swords  with 
him  but  five  months  back  at  Capri. 

To  do  his  work  properly,  he  must  first  inspect  tlie 
palace,  where,  if  the  Princess  Maria's  plans  are  carried 
out,  the  French  officers  will  be  surprised.  Therefore 
he  wanders  about  the  great  edifice  mid  lounging  lack- 
eys, pages,  and  gentlemen  in  waiting,  till  he  finds  him- 
self outside  the  court  theater  in  which  the  banquet  will 
take  place.  To  his  ears  comes  now  the  sound  of 
fiddles.  The  ladies  of  the  court  are  rehearsing  for  the 
ballet,  "  The  Queen  of  Love." 

But  unheeding  this,  Villiers  inspects  this  edifice  in 
which  the  French  officers  are  to  be  surprised.  It  occu- 
pies a  large  pavilion  of  solid  masonry,  built  well  out 


$2  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

into  the  ducal  gardens.  Its  main  floor  is  but  one  story 
above  them.  He  sees  at  the  foot  of  two  small  side 
stairways  doors  that  apparently  lead  into  the  royal 
gardens.  Besides  these,  there  is  a  broad  marble  stair- 
case leading  to  the  first  floor  of  the  palace.  "  If  a  body 
of  our  men  can  be  introduced  unobserved  by  the  secret 
passageway  by  which  I  came  into  the  ducal  gardens, 
from  there  they  can  easily  cut  off  and  secure  every 
roistering  French  officer,"  thinks  Villiers.  "  The  regi- 
ment of  Staremberg,  on  account  of  their  green  uni- 
forms being  less  visible  at  night,  will  be  best  for  this 
purpose,"  Sydney  decides. 

"  Sapristi,"  he  sneers,  "  without  leaders,  even  vet- 
erans, drunk  or  sober,  are  generally  helpless.  All  their 
officers  seized,  rushing  the  Concordia  gate  of  the  town 
will  be  a  bagatelle." 

He  glances  over  the  gardens,  and  determines  they 
are  capable  of  concealing  at  least  a  thousand  men, 
though  one  great  danger  to  this  plan  strikes  his  mili- 
tary eye.  The  inclosure  is  overlooked  by  a  strong 
bastion,  apparently  held  by  the  French  in  force. 
Should  Staremberg's  infantry,  as  they  are  intro- 
duced into  the  gardens,  be  discovered  before  their 
time  to  strike,  they  will  be  cut  off  and  probably  lost 
to  a  man.  This  chance,  however,  he  decides  must  be 
taken  in  case  further  investigation  shows  no  other  ob- 
stacle to  the  success  of  his  plan. 

Then  turning  his  attention  to  the  town,  he  presents 
his  passport  to  the  sentries  at  the  palace  gates  and  en- 
ters the  city.  Mirandola,  he  shortly  discovers,  is 
wholly  in  the  hands  of  the  French,  who  patrol  walls, 
bridges,  gates,  and  citadel. 

Passing  through  the  medieval  streets,  which  are 
well  filled  with  townspeople,  though  Gallic  uniforms 


THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  93 

are  very  numerous,  he  contrives  to  inspect  the  citadel, 
and  finds  to  his  concern  that  it  is  practically  impreg- 
nable to  quick  assault  from  outside  the  walls,  though 
more  susceptible  of  attack  from  the  interior  of  the  city. 

"  The  only  method  of  capturing  this,"  he  concludes, 
"  is  first  to  introduce  the  main  body  of  our  troops 
through  the  Concordia  gate."  This  portal  is  almost  di- 
rectly across  the  town  from  the  citadel,  but  after  half 
an  hour's  brisk  walking  he  contrives  to  inspect  this. 
Conning  the  matter  over,  he  determines  first,  that  the 
French  officers  must  be  captured  in  the  palace  by  the 
Austrians  introduced  into  the  ducal  gardens.  Then 
this  same  force  must  sally  out  of  the  palace  through 
the  town  and  attack  and  capture  the  Concordia 
gate  from  the  inside.  This  will  permit  the  entry  of 
the  main  body  of  Prince  Eugene's  troops  to  reduce  the 
citadel. 

His  military  reconnoissance  finished,  though  dinner 
has  not  passed  his  lips,  he  thinks :  "  Now  for  my  ward  !  " 
and  turns  his  steps  toward  the  house  of  Giacoma  Pas- 
quale,  faltering  to  himself:  "  Can  she  be  here?"  next 
jeers  himself:  "  You  addle-pated  fool,  why  is  your 
heart  beating?  This  girl  may  not  be  like  her  picture," 
then  shudders :  "  She  may  be  even  now  transformed 
into  one  of  those  light-headed  courtezans  who  dignify 
themselves  by  the  name  of  prima  donnas." 

Still,  as  he  walks  up  to  an  old-fashioned  house,  which 
has  been  pointed  out  to  him  on  the  Contrado  Pico,  and 
lays  his  hand  upon  its  rusty  iron  knocker,  he  notices 
his  fingers  tremble.  He  is  about  to  rap  upon  its  old- 
fashioned  portals,  when  to  him  come  the  sounds  of 
violin  accompanied  by  a  harpsichord.  Listening,  he 
pauses  and  mutters:  "By  jove,  I  am  hearing  a  vir- 
tuosQ  on  the  viol  of  Cremona,"  for  the  harmonies  on 


94  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

that  instrument  indicate  a  combination  of  fingering  and 
bowing  that  seems  to  the  Englishman  entirely  new, 
yet  wondrously  effective. 

A  moment  later,  over  these  strains,  which  are  but  a 
prelude,  float  the  clear  notes  of  a  woman's  melody, 
fresh  as  youth,  sweet  as  a  silver  bell,  high  ringing, 
dominant,  and  yet  of  that  sadly  romantic  timbre  which 
brings  tears  into  the  eyes.  As  the  last  note  dies  away 
an  electric  thrill  seems  to  fire  yet  chill  his  veins,  he 
mutters:  "  By  heaven,  that  is  her  voice!  " 

For  these  strains  remind  him  of  the  childish  notes 
by  the  Lago  di  Maggiore,  only  glorified,  idealized,  per- 
fected by  that  rigorous  training  and  indomitable  prac- 
tice without  which  genius  is  naught  and  nature  but 
half  successful. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  DUET  UNDER  THE  SWORD  OF  DAMOCLES. 

With  his  heart  nearer  his  mouth  than  it  has  been 
before  in  this  adventure,  Villiers  brings  down  the 
knocker  he  had  held  suspended  upon  the  heavy  door. 

To  his  call,  it  is  opened  by  a  slipshod  maid  of  all 
work,  who  comes  along  the  hallway  with  clattering 
sabots.  Entering  the  house,  romance  is  almost  taken 
from  him  by  the  careless  keeping  of  the  dwelling, 
which  is  dirty  in  every  nook  and  corner. 

To  his  demand  for  an  interview  with  Signor  Pas- 
quale,  the  servant  girl,  careless  of  ceremony,  immedi- 
ately opens  a  door  into  a  room  bare  of  everything  but 
dust  and  a  few  musical  instruments,  music  in  sheets, 
and  a  score  apparently  of  a  half  completed  opera  which 


THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  £§ 

litters  the  floor.  In  addition,  there  are  a  few  wooden 
chairs,  most  of  them  dilapidated.  The  room  is  of  that 
simplicity  which  this  modern  world  idealizes  by  the 
word  Bohemian,  which  generally  signifies  discomfort, 
filth,  and  careless  living. 

The  servant  girl  says  in  the  patois  of  Ferrara: 
"  That  is  him  who  is  getting  up  from  the  harpsichord." 
"You  wish  to  see  me,  signore?"  remarks  a  little 
Italian  of  keen,  squinting  eyes,  thin  frame,  yet  in  his 
face  burns  the  fire  of  art  dominated  by  the  lust  of  gold. 
Then  noting  Villiers's  court  clothes,  he  bows  to  the 
unswept  floor,  and  suggests:  "Some  message  from 
my  honored  mistress,  La  Princessa  of  Mirandola?  She 
wishes  a  new  march  written  for  her  entry  in  the  bal- 
let?" 

"  No;  though  I  am  here  by  her  command,"  answers 
Sydney,  who  has  great  difficulty  in  keeping  his  eyes 
from  the  girl  who  has  bashfully  stepped  away  from  the 
instrument  near  which  she  had  been  standing.  "  I 
have  to  request  your  instruction,  signore,  in  some  songs 
the  princess  desires  me  to  sing  at  her  festival.  Permit 
me  to  introduce  myself  as  Signer  Tomasso  Mon — 
Montaldo."  Villiers  stammers  for  a  moment  over  his 
new  name,  which  he  has  almost  forgotten  in  a  lover's 
agitation,  for  a  quick  glance  has  shown  him  the  girl's 
face  is  that  of  the  miniature  he  wears  upon  his  breast, 
that  the  young  lady  standing  in  his  presence  is  Lucia 
Marianna  Vesey,  bequeathed  to  his  guardianship  by 
her  dead  father  on  the  battlefield. 

"  Then  permit  me  to  introduce,"  remarks  Pasquale, 
"  the  maestro  of  the  viol,  Arcangelo  Corelli." 

As  Villiers  sees  bowing  before  him  the  first  violinist 
in  Italy,  he  thinks:  "  No  wonder  his  instrumentation 
was  marvelous." 


96  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

"  You  are,  signore,  I  take  it,  a  singer,  though  your 
name  is,  I  grieve,  unknown  to  me." 

"  Yes,  I  have  sung  mostly  in  Calabria  and  Southern 
Italy.  But  I  am  not  too  great  an  artist  to  feel  above 
taking  instructions  from  one  who  is  celebrated  all  over 
Europe,"  answers  the  Englishman. 

At  this  compliment  Pasquale  says  affably:  "Per- 
haps I  have  little  to  teach  you,  signore,  but "  Vil- 
liers is  looking  at  the  girl,  whose  head  is  turned  away 
from  him.  She  is  carelessly  strumming  over  the  notes 
of  a  piece  of  music  she  holds  in  her  hand.  "  But  be- 
fore you  accept  instruction  from  me,  signore,  let  me 
prove  to  you  I  know  the  art  not  only  of  vocalization, 
but  also  of  building  up  the  voice.  Sing  for  me  that 
little  air  you  have  in  your  hand,  Lucia,"  he  cries. 

Seating  himself  at  the  harpsichord,  he  runs  his  hands 
over  the  keys,  and  his  pupil,  coming  forward  quite  diffi- 
dently and  modestly,  breaks  out  into  one  of  those  little 
airs  stolen  from  the  troubadours  of  the  middle  ages, 
some  of  which  make  the  beauties  of  the  old  masses, 
others  of  which  have  become  the  airs  of  nations. 

So,  putting  up  her  voice  in  melody,  the  maiden  sings, 
while  Villiers,  in  the  joy  of  listening,  forgets  almost  the 
joy  of  seeing  the  exquisite  beauties  of  her  figure  and 
her  face,  which  now  seems  inspired;  and  this  is  not 
wondrous,  for  she  is  singing  an  air  that  had  been  stolen 
from  a  minnesinger  and  made  the  glories  of  an  old-time 
mass  of  Claude  Goudimel,  but  which  we  now  call  the 
Marseillaise,  to  whose  strident  song  the  French  have 
shed  oceans  of  blood  by  guillotine  and  battle. 

"  Now,  Lucia,  you  can  go,"  says  the  music  master 
in  affable  command,  and,  the  girl  obeying,  would  de- 
part, but  Villiers,  who  knows  this  is  no  moment  to 
make  communication  to  her,  cannot  help  opening  the 


THE   FIGHTING   TfcOUBADOtfR.  tf 

door  for  her.  As  she  passes  him,  an  ecstasy  flames  up 
in  his  eyes.  He  notes  she  is  even  more  lovely  than 
her  picture.  Bowing  to  her,  he  whispers:  "  I  thank 
you,  Donna  Lucia,  for  your  song." 

At  this  address,  which  indicates  nobility,  she  pauses, 
looks  with  startled  eyes  upon  him,  and  replies:  "  I 
thank  you  for  your  term,  signore.  I  used  to  be  ad- 
dressed in  such  manner — but  not  lately.  I  am  only  one 
of,"  she  sighs  deeply,  "  Padrone  Pasquale's  singing 
girls,  bound  to  him  by  the  law,"  and  so  passes  out. 

The  scant  ceremony  in  which  she  has  been  treated, 
the  lowly  manner  of  her  garbing,  for  the  girl  is  frocked 
in  plainest  country  cloth,  makes  Villiers  very  savage  as 
he  turns  his  eyes  upon  the  master  of  the  voice. 

The  violinist  has  risen  and  is  placing  his  instrument 
in  its  case.  He  remarks  cordially:  "  Adio,  my  dear 
Pasquale.  When  you  come  to  Venice  do  not  forget 
Corelli.  We  will  have  another  instrumental  after- 
noon. Your  accompaniment  to  me  is  perfect.  I  also 
thank  you  for  letting  me  hear  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
voices  to  which  I  have  ever  listened.  Her  face  is  lovely, 
but  her  voice — that  supreme  E  in  alt — Madre  di  Dio! 
It  beats  a  fiddle  string!  " 

"  Diavolo,"  growls  Pasquale,  "  if  the  jade  made  not 
such  a  fight  against  my  putting  her  on  the  stage,  she 
would  be  a  fortune.  As  it  is,  a  bird  that  can  sing  and 
won't  sing,  eh?" — he  snaps  his  fingers  in  brutal  sug- 
gestion— "  shall  shortly  be  made  to  sing." 

Despite  Villiers's  rage  at  the  implied  threat  of  the 
Italian,  these  words  bring  a  rapture.  They  tell  him  the 
girl  has  not  been  sullied  in  the  common  eye  and  in  the 
opinion  of  his  class  by  having  been  made  a  woman  of 
the  stage.  "  By  God's  blessing,"  he  thinks,  "  that  now 
shall  never  be !  "  and  bows  adieu  quite  cordially  to  the 


9«  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

great  violinist,  who  says:  "  I  will  not  keep  you  from 
your  new  pupil,  my  dear  Pasquale."  As  the  door 
closes  on  Corelli,  the  Englishman  finds  himself  face  to 
face  with  Signer  Giacomo,  who  for  a  day  or  two  will 
be  his  music  master,  and  almost  immediately,  after 
some  conference  as  to  terms,  enters  upon  his  duties. 

"  Please  sing  for  me  the  scale,  signore,"  Pasquale 
says,  "  first  in  the  diatonic,  then  the  chromatic,  ascend- 
ing and  descending. 

Villiers  complying  with  his  request,  he  rubs  his 
hands  together  and  says:  "Yes,  yes!  Now  the  in- 
tervals of  the  third,  fourth,  and  fifth."  This  being 
done  apparently  to  his  liking,  he  remarks:  "  You  take 
your  notes  with  freedom;  give  me  some  appoggiaturas 
and  a  trill  or  two.  Next  sing  some  melody  with  which 
you  are  familiar,  first  simply,  then  with  ornamentation 
and  embellishments."  This  having  been  done,  the 
maestro  smiles  on  his  pupil,  and  says:  "A  glorious 
voice,  though  I  think  a  little  out  of  training.  You 
have  been  well  schooled,  sir,  in  the  Roman  method, 
though  I  notice  with  regret  in  your  fioriture  you 
sometimes  take  the  augmented  fifth,  likewise  the  triton 
and  diminished  fourth.  These  are  intervals  the  voice 
achieves  with  difficulty — you  approach  them  with 
timidity.  You  had  better  avoid  them  in  your  embel- 
lishments. Your  method  I  can  alter  but  little,  for  your 
voice  is  now  formed.  You  are  much  older  than  you 
look,  signore.  Your  voice,  I  should  say,  is  that  of  twen- 
ty-eight or  twenty-nine;  your  age  seems  scarce  over 
twenty-one  years.  Do  I  guess  right,  signore  ?  " 

At  this  Villiers,  contriving  to  conceal  his  rage,  mut- 
ters:   "  Cospetto,  I  am  as  old  as  my  voice,  signore." 

"Well,  that  matters  little,  though  in  that  cane,  of 
course,  you  will  not  last  as  long  as  a  tenor.    That  is  the 


THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  99 

sad  fate  of  singers,  their  dying  voices  while  they  yet  live. 
Ah,  I  have  seen  them  stricken  by  a  flat  as  if  it  was  the 
hand  of  death  upon  them.  A  tenor  losing  his  ut  de 
poltrine  is  like  the  ordinary  man  going  blind.  But 
you  have  got  many  years  yet  of  vocal  power.  Do  you 
wish  after  you  sing  for  the  princess  to  enter  the  royal 
opera  troupe  here?  I  need  a  tenor.  You'd  do  well  for 
the  light  roles  of  opera  buffa,  in  which  your  diminished 
stature  makes  you  an  admirable  comic  effect  with  the 
audience." 

"  I  sing  not  for  the  common  herd,"  snarls  Villiers 
savagely.  "  I  am  a  troubadour,  the  last  of  my  race.  I 
wish  to  run  over  with  you  some  Tuscan  love  songs  of 
Raimon  Vidal,  also  the  comic  ditty  telling  of  the  wick- 
edness of  Macaire  and  the  misfortunes  of  Blancifior." 

"  I  know  that  morceau,"  murmurs  the^  master. 

"  Also  I  would,  under  your  instruction,  revive  in  my 
mind  the  songs  of  Gabriello  Chiabera  of  the  victories 
of  the  Tuscan  galleys;  likewise  Filicaria's  couplets 
about  Venice  besieged  by  the  Turks.  They  have  been 
well  set  to  music." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  know  them  all."  With  this,  the  little 
musical  wretch,  seating  himself  at  the  harpsichord, 
dashes  through  them  all  without  the  aid  of  notes. 
"  These  are  what  you  want  to  learn,  eh,  or  rather  re- 
vive? "  he  asks. 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  employed  in  the  horse  fetes  at 
Siena  lately,  and  have  not  given  my  voice  the  practice 
that  it  needs." 

Here  unlooked-for  joy  comes  to  the  troubadour. 
The  maestro  says:  "  Then  to  make  your  voice,  which 
apparently  has  lost  its  certainty  by  lack  of  practice, 
more  sure,  your  attack  more  positive,  direct,  and  ac- 
curate, it  is  best  this  afternoon  I  let  you  sing  in  con- 


100  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

sonance  with  another  voice,  one  that  is  certainty  itself 
in  every  note.  When  you  sing  false  her  accuracy  will 
show  your  error." 

"  You  mean  your  pupil  who  sang  but  now?"  asks 
Villiers,  his  heart  beginning  to  beat. 

"  Yes,  she  is  sure.  I  have  half  a  dozen  other  singers 
in  the  house,  but  Lucia's  voice  is  accuracy  itself.  It 
is  so  young,  it  never  flats  or  sharps.  She,"  says  the 
little  man,  putting  his  hands  over  his  face,  "  is  perfect 
as  a  singer,  all  save  one  thing,  which  will  come  by 
age.  Though  her  voice  has  soul,  it  has  not  romance. 
Her  heart  has  never  yet  been  awakened.  Until  that 
girl  feels  some  grand  passion  she  is  an  incomplete 
artist.  No  singer  is  ever  at  their  zenith,  man  or  wom- 
an, unless  they  have  felt  not  only  the  joys  of  love, 
but  also  its  miseries  and  despairs.  I  sang  once,  sig- 
nore."  Tears  are  in  the  maestro's  eyes.  "  You  have 
heard  of  the  tenor  Ludovici,  who  suddenly  in  the  very 
zenith  of  his  powers  lost  his  voice  one  night  at  Naples, 
and  was  hissed  by  the  fickle  populace  from  the  stage. 
That  was  I,  Fiordelessa  Ludovici,  because  that  day  a 
woman  had  broken  my  heart.  But  to  business,  signore. 
Though  I  no  more  sing  myself,  I  may  perhaps  assist 
you  to." 

He  claps  his  hands,  calls  the  maid  of  all  work, 
and  commands:  "  Send  Lucia  to  me." 

"  She  is  just  going  to  take  her  lesson,  signore,"  an- 
swers the  girl,  "  in  stage  dancing  from  thy  sister 
Tessa,  who  has  come  in  from  rehearsal  at  the  palace." 

This  answer  is  certified  to  by  Signorina  Tessa  Pas- 
quale  herself,  a  bold,  big,  dashing  amazon  of  a  wom- 
an, with  sparkling  black  eyes,  quick  strident  voice,  and 
firm  yet  lively  face.  Coming  in  briskly,  she  says 
brusquely;  "Post  thou  not  know,  Gia,  that  this 


THE  FiGli'iiNG  T/icOBAoouk.  *6i 

coming  hour  I  make  our  jade  dance  to  my  tune!  Your 
apprentice,  Enrico,  is  already  tuning  his  violin  in  my 
dancing  room.  If  you  and  this  gentleman  here  would 
like  to  see  a  prima  donna  changed  into  a  ballet  girl," 
she  laughs,  "  I  shall  be  delighted  to  show  you  one. 
That  trollop  Lucia  has  such  objection  to  the  stage, 
signore,"  the  woman  says,  turning  to  Villiers,  "  that  I 
think  it  well  for  her  to  be  displayed  in  the  activity  and 
costume  of  the  dance  as  much  as  possible.  From 
some  extraordinary  diffidence,  though  she  has  the 
voice  of  a  bird,  in  public  she  refuses  to  sing." 

"  Yes,  when  I  have  given  her  supreme  attention  for 
four  years  of  my  life,  when  I  have  expended  money 
on  her;  hiring  the  maitre  d'armes  Ronconi  to  give  the 
girl  lessons  with  the  foils  to  make  her  graceful,"  growls 
Giacomo. 

"  Cospetto!  "  interjects  his  sister  sharply.  "  If  I  were 
thee,  Padrone  Pasquale,  I  would  see  if  my  bound  girl 
did  not  do  my  bidding.  But  come,  gentlemen,  I  at 
least  can  make  the  minx  caper  for  you.  Our  canary 
bird  fears  my  hand  if  she  fears  not  yours,  my  soft- 
hearted Gia." 

"  Madame,"  says  Villiers  suavely,  fighting  down 
rage,  "  I  am  about  to  take  a  singing  lesson  from  your 
brother,  who  has  suggested  that  it  might  aid  me  to 
sing  some  duets  with  your  pupil." 

"  Pish !  Cecilia,  Lucrezia,  Seraphina,  or  any  other 
of  your  opera  jades  will  do  well  enough  for  that, 
Gia,"  dissents  the  ballet  mistress.  "  After  my  lesson,  in 
which  I  shall  teach  Donna  Cadenza  to  bound,  pirouette 
and  do  toe  exercise,  she  can  come  to  you  if  you  want 
her." 

"  Madame,  after  such  exertion  she  would  have  but 
little  breath  in  her  body  to  sing,"  returns  Villiers  diplo- 


102  THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

matically.  "  Besides,  Maestro  Pasquale  thinks  her 
voice  will  aid  me  more  than  the  others.  I  have  al- 
ready given  him  liberal  terms,  but  if  a  ducat  or  two 
more,  for  I  have  but  a  day  or  two  to  improve  my 
voice." 

A  ducat  or  two  settles  the  business. 

Pasquale  interjects  sharply:  "Two  ducats  in  addi- 
tion each  lesson,  you  said,  honored  signore,"  then 
cries:  "Tessa,  send  our  nightingale  here  at  once." 

The  two  ducats  appeal  equally  to  the  teacher  of  the 
ballet.  Calling  back:  "  I  will  have  the  jade  here  in  a 
jiffy,"  she  can  be  heard  bounding  up  the  stairs  with  the 
vigor  of  a  premier  ballerina. 

"  It  is  understood,  then,  that  at  each  lesson  I  have 
the  assistance  of  your  apprentice — Lucia,  I  believe,  is 
her  name,"  mutters  Villiers. 

"  Yes,  Lucia  Marianna  Vesey.  Her  name  is  half 
English  after  that  of  her  father,  from  whose  northern 
blood  she  gets  her  dogged  obstinacy,  del,  how  I 
have  promised  her  the  richest  robes  for  stage  display, 
how  I  have  told  her  of  the  fine  gentlemen  who  will  run 
after  her  pretty  face,  to  induce  her  to  consent  to  raise 
her  voice  upon  the  operatic  stage.  But  this  only  seems 
to  make  her  more  defiant,"  he  snarls.  "  She  says  her 
mother  declared  the  artistes  of  the  opera  are  consid- 
ered ladies  of  easy  virtue.  Bah,  why  not?  Art  should 
have  some  recreation.  Diavolo,  if  she  is  obstinate  much 
longer,  some  day  I  shall " 

His  dissertation  is  interrupted  by  his  sister's  voice 
upstairs  crying :  "  Quick,  hussy  Lucia !  thy  master  is 
waiting  for  you." 

Then  a  sweet  voice  comes  in  answer.  Though  low 
toned,  its  penetration  is  so  great  Villiers  distinctly 
hears  it:  "  Madame,  I  am  yet  in  my  dancing  dress." 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  103 

Whereupon  Tessa  jeers:  "Pish,  fool,  dost  think 
thy  short  skirts  and  thy  pretty  legs  in  fleshings  will 
frighten  that  gentleman  down  there?  " 

A  moment  later  Lucia  comes  in  quite  modestly  and 
courtesies  lowly  to  her  padrone,  saying:  "  I  believe 
you  wish  my  service,  signore.  I  hope  I  have  not  kept 
you  waiting,  but  I  was  just  prepared  for  Tessa's 
lesson." 

Her  costume  indicates  this.  Apparently  she  has 
thrown  on  hastily  a  long  skirt  over  her  short  dancing 
jupe;  for  as  she  courtesies  Villiers  sees  her  pretty  feet 
and  graceful  ankles  are  robed  in  the  fleshings  and 
slippers  of  the  ballet.  Her  bodice  seemingly  is  still 
that  of  her  dancing  costume.  It  is  made  of  common 
white  muslin  without  any  ornament;  above  it  rise 
shoulders  of  dazzling  snow,  as  to  give  her  easy  move- 
ment it  has  been  cut  away  at  the  neck.  Likewise,  her 
superb  arms,  bare  to  the  very  shoulders  for  purposes 
of  gesticulation,  gleam  like  Parian  marble  in  rounded 
beauty.  For  the  girl  under  the  sun  of  Italy  has  devel- 
oped gloriously  from  the  maiden  of  the  miniature  her 
guardian  wears  upon  his  breast. 

She  looks  at  Villiers  bashfully,  and  falters:  "  I  un- 
derstand I  am  to  sing  with  you,  signore?  " 

"  If  it  so  please  you,"  answers  the  Englishman,  with 
courteous  bow. 

"  Yes,  quick,  this  exercise  of  Cavalli,  then  a  duet 
from  Scarlatti's  '  I  Dolor  de  Maria,'  and  this  morceau 
written  by  the  boy  Porpora,  who  is  just  becoming 
famous  in  Naples,"  commands  Giacomo;  and,  turning 
to  Sydney,  he  inquires:  "  You  read  music,  of  course, 
at  sight,  signore?  " 

"  I  do,"  answers  the  troubadour. 

A  moment  later,  Pasquale  sitting  at  the  harpsichord, 


104  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

the  guardian  standing  beside  his  lovely  ward,  lifts  up 
his  voice  and  joins  it  to  her  exquisite  melody.  But  as 
he  sings  the  captain  of  cavalry  finds  himself  rusty  at 
this  exercise,  and  makes  a  few  mistakes,  at  which  the 
girl  bursts  out  laughing  merrily. 

Her  vivacity  gives  Villiers  delight.  It  shows  him 
that  his  ward's  bright  spirit  is  still  untamed,  her  dear 
heart  is  yet  unbroken. 

Then  the  little  minx  says  archly:  "Let  me  help 
you,  Signer  -  Who  -  doesn't  -  know-the-change-in-key," 
and  sings  his  part  over  for  him. 

Then  he,  his  heart  beating  as  he  stands  beside  her, 
goes  through  it  once  again,  at  which  she  claps  her 
hands  and  cries :  "  Cielo,  you  have  a  noble  voice.  I 
shall  like  to  sing  with  you." 

Hearing  this,  Giacomo,  as  he  sits  at  the  harpsichord, 
chuckles:  "  You  have  better  spirits,  child,  than  I  have 
seen  in  you  for  a  year.  A  gentleman  to  sing  with  you 
is  what  you  want.  We'll  have  a  plenty  of  them  for  you 
upon  the  opera  stage." 

At  this  insinuation  the  girl  blushes  hotly,  and  fal- 
ters: "  I  am  delighted  to  avoid  my  dancing  lesson,  in 
which  Tessa  makes  me  jump  and  kick  and  cut  my 
capers,  and  says  it  gives  me  dramatic  action,  for  I 
love  only  singing."  Then  seeing  Villiers  is  not  over 
pleased  at  this  remark,  she  turns  to  him,  and  adds,  as 
if  to  mitigate  her  words:  "Will  you  not  try  with 
me,  signore,  the  next  duetto?  " 

Together  they  sing  that  great  duet  from  Scarlatti's 
oratorio,  and  in  it  comes  surprise  and  consternation 
to  old  Pasquale.  In  the  very  midst  of  its  great  con- 
certed passage,  he  springs  from  the  harpsichord  with 
a  muttered  oath,  and  shudders:  "  Maldetta!  Lucia, 
hast  flatted!  A  false  note  from  you?  Can  I  be- 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  105 

lieve  my  ears!  Diarolo,  for  this,  you  careless  hussy, 
you  shall  this  night  do  two  hours  of  scales  chromatic." 

His  rage  is  so  great  that  for  a  moment  Villiers  fears 
he  will  lift  his  hand  and  box  the  fair  delinquent's  ear. 
Then  heaven  help  poor  Pasquale! 

As  for  la  diva,  she  has  started  back  as  if  astounded 
at  herself,  and  muttered :  "  I  know  it,  maestro.  I 
flatted  that  C." 

But  all  the  time  her  eyes  are  fixed  upon  the  signet 
ring  of  her  dead  father  that  glistens  upon  the  finger  of 
the  troubadour. 

Catching  her  glance,  Villiers  says  hurriedly:  "  Let 
us  sing  it  over,  signorina.  Next  time,  maestro,  I 
know  she  will  not  make  the  same  error." 

"Don't  let  her  dare  to!"  cries  Giacomo,  reseating 
himself  at  the  instrument.  "  Such  thing  was  never 
heard  before.  Lucia,  you  are  possessed!"  And  all 
the  time  the  girl's  lovely  face  has  a  curious  question- 
ing as  she  looks  at  Sydney. 

But  he  cries  sharply:  "  Now  let  us  sing,"  and  whis- 
pers :  "  Other  things  afterward,"  for  the  tramp  of  a 
company  of  marching  French  infantry  in  the  street 
outside  tells  the  spy  it  is  no  time  for  explanation. 

On  the  repetition  the  girl's  voice  rings  out  pure,  true, 
and  accurate,  and  so  the  lesson  goes  on  and  on,  for 
Villiers  could  sing  with  this  maiden  all  the  day,  and 
Giacomo  is  honest  as  regards  his  art,  and  likes  to  give 
his  money's  worth,  though  he  charges  high. 

"  One  more  exercise,"  he  says,  "  I  think  will  be 
enough  for  this  afternoon,"  and  hands  to  Sydney 
and  Lucia  a  duet  of  Lulli. 

A  great  deal  of  this  is  for  voices  in  unison.  That 
their  notes  may  be  in  perfect  accord,  the  singers  are 
compelled  to  look  each  other  partially  in  the  face,  and 


106  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

the  English  captain  finds  soft  hazel  eyes  gazing  into 
his,  and  a  pair  of  lips,  moist  as  cut  cherries,  very  close 
to  his;  and  the  sweet  breath  of  Lucia  Vesey  fanning  his 
cheeks  to  make  his  heart  beat.  His  blood  bounds  in 
his  veins.  Stimulated  by  the  romantic  music  and  the 
propinquity  of  a  beauty  he  has  thought  of,  longed  for, 
and  loved  these  long  months,  Villiers,  inspecting 
Lucia's  eyes,  forgets  to  time  the  music  on  her  lips, 
and  makes  a  bungle  of  his  part.  The  quick  ear  of  Pas- 
quale  catches  this  on  the  instant.  This  is  fortunate  for . 
the  young  lady.  As  the  master  springs  up  from  the 
harpsichord  she  also  makes  a  slip  in  her  cadence ;  for, 
looking  at  this  man  a  new  light  has  flown  into  her 
eyes.  Somehow  her  heart  has  got  to  beating  also,  not  to 
the  rhythm  of  the  music,  though  it  seems  to  sing  to 
her  ears  an  air  more  beautiful  than  even  that  of  Lulli. 

After  explaining  to  Villiers  his  mistake  in  courteous 
voice,  Giacomo  says  sharply  to  the  girl :  "  You  made 
an  error  also,  Lucia.  I  never  heard  you  sing  so  badly. 
To-morrow  morning  for  this  two  hours  of  scales  dia- 
tonic. Now,  da  capo! "  and  he  seats  himself  at  the 
harpsichord. 

Villiers  and  Lucia  are  very  happy  to  sing  the 
passage  over  again.  Their  eyes  seem  to  answer  each 
other  with  some  strange  telegraphy.  Their  lips  move 
in  unison.  Somehow  or  other  the  tenor  has,  in  a 
romantic  passage,  seized  the  soprano's  delicate 
white  hand  in  his  strong  clasp.  Passion  gets  into  their 
voices,  and  as  they  finish  the  gentleman  hears  from  the 
lady's  lips,  after  her  last  sweet  note,  a  subdued  sigh  that 
gives  to  him  a  rapture. 

But  Giacomo  breaks  in  upon  their  sentiment.  He 
says  approvingly:  "Your  voice,  Sieur  Troubadour, 
is  improving  greatly  with  practice." 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  107 

"  Yes,  with  the  assistance  of  this  young  lady,"  an- 
swers his  pupil.  "  Without  her  I  doubt  if  I  should 
have  made  such  progress." 

"  Then  for  two  ducats  more  at  each  you  wish  Lucia 
to  assist  at  your  other  lessons  until  you  sing  at 
the  princess's  f£te?" 

"  Yes,  those  were  the  terms  I  understood,"  and  the 
maestro's  hand  being  extended  toward  him,  the  trou- 
badour adds:  "  I  pay  you  thus." 

Whereupon  Villiers  very  cunningly  produces  a 
doubloon  of  Spanish  gold,  which  will  require  change. 

To  the  Englishman's  delight,  after  hunting  in  his 
pockets,  Pasquale  remarks:  "Excuse  me,  signore, 
I  must  visit  my  sister,  who  is  my  treasurer,  and  get  the 
change  from  her,"  then  runs  hurriedly  away. 

As  his  slippered  feet  sound  on  the  distant  stairway, 
Villiers  finds  himself  for  the  first  time  alone  with  Lucy 
Vesey,  whose  eyes  are  now  upon  her  father's  signet 
ring,  and  have  strange  questions  in  their  lovely  depths. 

"  I  am  here,"  he  whispers  rapidly,  "  as  the  repre- 
sentative of  your  father,  Sir  Andrew  Vesey.  In  proof 
of  it,  behold  his  ring."  He  offers  it  to  her. 

Kissing  her  dead  father's  signet,  the  girl,  with  a 
low  sobbing  sigh,  falters:  "  At  last!  Oh,  how  I  have 
longed  to  hear  his  voice  ever  since  my  poor  mother's 
death,"  the  tears  come  into  her  lovely  eyes.  "  But 
what  can  you  do  for  me?"  she  shudders.  "The  au- 
thorities of  Cremona  have  bound  me  apprentice  to 
my  padrone.  I  am  legally  his  for  seven  years.  They 
are  about  to  make  me  sing  on  the  stage  publicly — an 
opera  woman!  My  mother  warned  me  against  it  with 
her  dying  voice.  She  said  it  would  degrade  me;  that 
ladies  of  the  opera  were  thought  light-o'-loves  by  all 
gallant  gentlemen." 


Io8  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

"  Please  God,  that  shall  never  be  now,"  whispers 
Sydney,  speaking  Anglo-Saxon. 

To  him  she  cries:  "  English!  I  can  trust  you.  I 
know  you  are  true.  You  speak  in  the  language  of  my 
dear  father,"  then  questions  hurriedly:  "  Why  is  he 
not  here?  and  you — a  troubadour?"  Her  face  has 
wonder  in  it,  and  for  a  second  almost  suspicion. 

But  this  fades  away  at  Villiers's  impetuous  question: 
"  Can  I  trust  you  with  my  life?  " 

"  O  Dio,  could  I  ever  betray  one  who  for  the  first 
time  since  my  mother's  death  has  spoken  to  me  in 

words  of  kindness.  Besides,  I ,"  she  looks  him  in 

the  face,  "  I — I  believe  you  ";  next  adds,  almost  ten- 
derly: "  Trust  me  as  I  do  you." 

"  Then,"  says  Villiers,  for  his  instinct  tells  him  that 
the  stern  school  of  misfortune  has  given  this  girl,  who 
is  still  almost  a  child,  self-control  and  intelligence  be- 
yond her  years,  "  I  tell  you  this.  I  am,  as  your  father 
is  now,  an  officer  of  the  German  emperor.  Therefore 
he  cannot  visit  you  in  this  town  garrisoned  by  the 
French.  But  I,  taking  my  life  in  my  hands,  have 
come  here  in  disguise  for  a  military  duty,  and  also — to 
succor  you." 

"  Succor  me?  "  she  bursts  forth.  "  Impossible!  Pas- 
quale  will  never  let  me  go.  He  thinks  my  voice  a  for- 
tune. Besides,  that  awful  woman  offers  to  buy  my 
services  from  him."  Terror  has  flown  into  the  girl's 
bright  eyes. 

"  What  woman?  " 

"  A  lady  of  the  court,  who  once  for  some  childish 
prank  of  mine  tried  to  drown  me,  and  has  hated  me 
ever  since." 

"  What  childish  prank?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     I  do  not  understand.    Something 


fTHE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  I  Op 

I  said  to  a  gentleman  who  was  with  her.  He  may  have 
been  her  lover;  I  cannot  tell.  Something  that  makes 
her  hate  me.  Sometimes  I  think  it  is  by  her  influence 
that  I  am  here;  that  no  money  ever  came  to  my  dear 
mother  through  the  banker,  St.  Croix.  Oh,  how  she 
looked  for  it;  expected  it.  She  couldn't  believe  my 
father  had  ever  been  so  careless  as  to  desert  her  in  her 
extremity." 

"  Your  father  never  did,"  whispers  Villiers.  "  Sir 
Andrew  is  and  always  has  been  true  to  you."  For  at 
this  moment  he  dare  not  give  Lucy  Vesey  the  shock 
of  telling  her  of  her  father's  death.  That  might  betray 
them  both. 

"  Then  I  again  have  hope,"  she  whispers;  next  ques- 
tions, a  curious  tenderness  in  her  sweet  voice:  "  And 
you  have  risked  your  life  for  me?  Why,  signore?  " 

"  Because  I  love "  Villiers  in  a  moment  of 

sanity  replaces  the  "  you  "  that  is  on  his  lips  by  "  your 
father." 

For  the  girl's  beauty  that  he  has  hungered  for  so 
long  has  got  into  his  soul.  Had  Giacomo  robed  her 
to  entrance  him,  he  could  scarce  have  garbed  more 
deftly.  For  the  maestro  of  singing  is  too  cunning  to 
destroy  a  diva's  voice  by  the  tightly  laced  stays  of  fash- 
ion, and  the  poor  thin  muslin  of  her  sack  betrays  every 
glory  of  the  lithe,  graceful,  yet  divinely  rounded  figure 
of  Lucia  Vesey. 

"  You  love  my  father?  Give  me  one  proof  that  he 
trusts  you,  and  I  am  at  your  command  in  every  way, 
signore." 

"  One  proof?  " 

"  Yes — one  supreme  proof!  " 

"Then  here  it  is!  "  and  Villiers  produces  from  his 
breast  the  girl's  face  upon  ivory. 


110  THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

"  Yes,  I  remember  it,"  she  says:  "  It  was  painted  by 
Jacopo  Giovanni,  to  send  to  my  father.  He  would  never 
have  given  it  to  you  except  that  he  trusted  you,  and 
you  were  his  envoy  to  me." 

"  Behold  another!  "  Sydney  hands  his  ward  the  two 
lines  scrawled  by  the  dying  man  as  he  lay  upon  the 
field  of  Chiari. 

"  His  writing,"  falters  the  girl.  "  The  same  as  his 
letters  to  my  dear  mother."  Then  her  eyes  open  in 
strange  bashfulness.  "  This  says  I  am  to  trust  you  and 
to  obey  you."  Her  eyes  look  wistfully  at  him.  "  You 
are  the  officer  mentioned  in  this?  " 

"  I  am  Captain  Sydney  Villiers." 

"  Then  I  obey  you,"  murmurs  his  ward,  and  cour- 
tesies to  the  floor. 

"And  I  am  your  obedient  servant!  "  Taking  her 
little  hand,  Villiers  kisses  it  both  tenderly  and  gal- 
lantly; then  suddenly  whispers:  "Hush!  Upon  your 
discretion  hangs  my  life  and  your  salvation!"  and 
starts  from  her. 

"  I  understand,"  answers  Lucia,  and  proves  her  dis- 
cretion by  turning  aside  and  humming  over  the  notes 
of  a  piece  of  music;  as  this  interview,  which  has  been 
held  with  subdued  voices  and  many  apprehensive 
glances  at  the  door,  is  broken  in  upon  by  Pasquale, 
who  apparently  has  been  a  long  time  finding  change. 
In  fact,  he  has  not  got  it,  for,  after  prolonged  con- 
sultation with  his  sister,  who  is  also  avaricious  and 
hates  to  give  up  money  in  hand,  he  appears  and  mut- 
ters: "The  necessary -coins  to  make  change,  signore, 
we  have  not  in  the  house.  With  your  permission,  I 
will " 

"  Leave  it  for  the  next  lesson,"  Villiers  cries.  "  Be- 
sides, maestro,"  a  sudden  inspiration  seizing  him, 


THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUk.  lit 

"  though  I  have  apartments  assigned  me  in  the  palace, 
still  I  have  business  within  the  town,  and  it  would  be  a 
convenience  to  me  to  have  a  lodging  that  I  could 
call  my  own  and  enter  at  my  ease.  Your  house  seems 
roomy." 

"  I  have  two  or  three  apartments,"  cries  Pasquale, 
"  magnificent  ones;  a  little  cold  in  winter,  but  a  fire  of 
vine  branches,  which  will  cost  you  a  little  more,  will 
make  them  summery."  Then  he  calls:  "  Tessa,  quick! 
I  have  a  lodger." 

And  his  sister  making  her  appearance,  after  consul- 
tation with  her,  he  says:  "We  have  the  apartments 
which  you  wish,  sir;  just  up  one  flight  of  stairs.  They 
will  cost  you  four  crowns  a  week  and  will  be  ready  in 
an  hour." 

"  Yes,  in  an  hour,"  rejoins  Tessa.  "  I  will  turn  the 
singing  girls  Lucrezia  and  Seraphina  out,  and  put 
them  into  your  room,  Lucia.  They  can  also  share  your 
cot.  Three  in  a  bed  will  be  warm  and  pleasant  sleep- 
ing in  winter.  Your  attic  chamber  is  now  quite  cold. 
I  have  been  fearing  for  your  voice  this  week  or  two." 

"  I  would  not  incommode  this  young  lady  for  the 
world,"  interposes  Villiers,  who,  though  he  wants  the 
rooms  for  chances  of  interview  with  his  ward,  hesitates 
to  inconvenience  his  divinity.  That  is  the  way  one 
short  music  lesson  makes  him  think  of  Lucia  Vesey. 

But  this  young  lady,  who  fears  being  separated  from 
this  man,  who  represents  her  only  hope  of  happiness, 
looking  wistfully  at  him,  interjects:  "  I  like  company. 
Alone  I  am  afraid  of  rats  at  night  after  my  tallow-dip 
has  burnt  itself  out." 

"  Diavolo!  That's  why  you  burn  so  many  candles, 
wretch !  "  cries  Tessa  angrily.  "  But  slip  off  that  trail- 
ing skirt  and  get  ready  for  your  dance.  You  will  COHIQ 


tia  THE  FIGHTING  TfcOUBADOUfc. 

and  see  her  cut  her  capers,  signore,"  she  says  affably 
to  Villiers.  "  She  looks  quite  well  in  short  skirts.  Cos- 
petto,  our  nightingale  shall  kick  as  high  as  she  sings." 

But  at  this  suggestion  such  blushes  fly  over  the 
girl's  face,  neck,  and  even  shoulders  that  Villiers, 
though  he  knows  the  sight  would  be  as  beautiful  as  an 
opium  dream,  hurriedly  dissents. 

So  after  a  little  they  come  to  terms  as  to  his  rooms, 
the  troubadour,  to  prevent  any  suspicion  of  his  object, 
beating  his  landlord  down  to  three  crowns*  rent. 

Then,  finding  no  immediate  chance  of  further  word 
with  the  girl,  whose  eyes  beam  on  him  in  almost 
pathetic  confidence,  he  takes  his  leave,  Giacomo  re- 
marking cordially  to  him:  "The  balance  of  that 
doubloon  just  pays  your  rent.  We  hope  to  see  you 
this  evening,  signore." 

But  this  evening  Villiers  does  not  return,  and  Lucia, 
gazing  wistfully  for  him  in  her  little  chamber,  gives  a 
cry  of  joy  on  being  summoned  to  the  music  room  of 
her  master,  for  she  thinks  it  is  to  sing  again  with  this 
man,  whom  within  one  hour  she  has  grown  to  trust, 
not  only  as  the  envoy  of  her  father,  but  on  her  own  ac- 
count, for  a  strange  thrill  has  run  through  her  veins 
when  his  hand  had  touched  hers,  something  that 
seemed  to  make  her  heart  a  different  one  than  it  had 
been  before. 

This  something  is  so  potent  that  when  she,  en- 
during disappointment,  sings  a  solo  for  Giacomo, 
the  maestro  opens  his  eyes  and  looks  at  her  strangely. 
Then  mutters  wonderingly:  "What  man  has  given 
this  child  the  love  without  which  art  is  but  a  placid, 
soulless,  dead  thing?  Dio,  Lucia  has  found  her  heart. 
At  last  she  is  a  diva!1' 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  113 

CHAPTER  X. 

THE  SIGNAL  OF  THE  SECRET  PASSAGE. 

Though  Villiers  burns  to  again  see  his  fair  ward, 
the  dangers  that  surround  a  military  outlaw  this  night 
prevent  him.  To  a  spy  the  most  appalling  thing  that 
can  confront  him  is  surprise.  Himself  the  unexpected, 
he  shudders  at  the  unexpected  to  himself.  Several 
such  unpleasant  contretemps  are  about  to  descend  on 
the  English  captain.  One  of  them  comes  upon  him 
even  as  he  steps  out  of  Pasquale's  house. 

The  day  is  quite  well  advanced.  He  has  just  recol- 
lected that  he  has  eaten  nothing  since  the  morning, 
and  is  about  to  make  inquiries  from  some  of  the  people 
on  the  street  for  a  nearby  inn  or  house  of  entertain- 
ment, when  a  boyish  arm  wearing  the  uniform  of  a 
French  lieutenant  is  passed  within  his,  and  its  owner 
says  to  him  affably :  "  Sieur  Troubadour,  I  was  intro- 
duced to  you  at  the  palace  this  morning.  I  am  Am- 
brose de  Terrail,  of  the  regiment  of  Picardy.  I  hope 
you  remember  my  name." 

"  So  well  you  needn't  have  reminded  me  of  it,  Mon- 
sieur de  Terrail,"  replies  Villiers,  composing  himself 
after  a  greeting  that  he  feared  meant  arrest.  "  I  am 
delighted  to  meet  you,  not  because  you  can  do  me  a 
favor,  but  aside  from  it." 

"  You  can  do  me  one  also,"  laughs  the  young  lieu- 
tenant. "  But  first  let  me  gratify  your  wish.  What  is 
it?" 

"  Direction  to  the  best  house  of  entertainment  in  the 
town,  where  I  hope  you  will  join  me  in  a  bottle  of 
wine." 

"  With    pleasure.      Come   with   me.     The    Golden 


114  THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

Juggler  is  the  best  place  near  here,  their  Neapolitan 
Lachrima  Christi  is  as  good  an  Italian  wine  as  ever 
ran  down  my  gullet." 

As  the  two  walk  along  together,  Villiers  queries: 
"  And  the  favor  you  had  to  ask?  " 

"  Only  that  you  tell  me  the  name  of  the  owner  of 
that  divine  voice  with  whom  you  have  been  singing.  I 
have  been  standing  outside  Maestro  Pasquale's  house 
for  the  last  hour  listening  to  you.  Is  she  the  diva 
they  intend  to  put  upon  the  stage  of  the  court  theater 
here,  the  one  whose  singing  is  being  so  whispered 
about?  I  love  music,  I  love  beauty.  Parbleu,  does  she 
combine  both?  " 

"  I  think  she  is  the  girl  you  are  speaking  of,  mon- 
sieur," returns  Villiers,  judging  the  truth  best  in  this 
matter,  though  he  almost  curses  the  lieutenant  for  his 
love  of  beauty  and  love  of  music.  "  Still,  she  is  not  as 
lovely  as  some  of  the  court  ladies,  I  presume." 

"Well,  possibly  not.  Little  Gianetta  di  Persian! 
is  a  very  pretty  little  maid  of  honor,"  chats  De  Terrail. 
"  So  is  the  Lady  Giulia  Visconti.  The  mistress  of 
them,  too,  La  Marchesa  di  Monteferrato,  have  you 
seen  her?  She  has  a  regal  beauty.  But  still  I  am  itch- 
ing for  the  first  appearance  of  Pasquale's  diva  that  is 
promised  to  us  the  night  after  the  princessa's  banquet, 
though  he  has  disappointed  us  before." 

"  The  night  after  the  banquet;  ah,  yes,"  answers  Vil- 
liers, the  suspicion  of  a  smile  playing  over  his  face,  as 
he  asks:  "You  expect  a  merry  winter  here  in  gar- 
rison?" 

"  Very.  You  see  we  shall  have  so  little  to  fear  from 
Prince  Eugene." 

"  Ah." 

"  Yes,  our  videttes  reported  yesterday  that  none  of 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  11$ 

his  troops  had  passed  the  Secchia.  To-day  we  know 
Prince  Eugene  has  suddenly  marched  north  of  the  Po 
again,  to  protect  his  blockade  of  Mantua,  which  De 
Villeroy  once  more  threatens." 

At  this  information  Villiers's  heart  becomes  lead  in 
his  body,  though  after  two  awful  mental  curses  he 
contrives  to  mutter  in  ordinary  voice:  "  You  are 
sure?  " 

"  Oh,  certain.  The  news  was  brought  in  this  morn- 
ing by  an  escaped  sergeant  of  Dillon's  Irish  regiment, 
a  brave  fellow  who  had  been  captured  at  Canneto,  but 
he  made  his  escape  from  Gonzaga  almost  naked,  and, 
stealing  two  troop  horses,  succeeded  in  swimming 
across  the  Secchia.  He  was  naked  and  wet  with  the 
water  of  the  river  when  one  of  our  videttes  found  him. 
When  they  brought  him  in  at  first  we  thought  that 
he  was  one  of  the  enemy,  but  as  well  as  we  can  make 
out  for  he  speaks  a  vile  mixture  of  Irish,  Italian, 
French,  and  German;  he  is  a  sergeant  of  Dillon's  Irish 
regiment,  and  some  fourteenth  cousin  of  the  Chevalier 
Burke,  who  commands  another  of  our  Irish  battalions 
stationed  at  Cremona." 

"  You  are  sure  his  information  is  correct?  " 

"  Oh,  certain!  We  have  no  doubt  of  the  fellow  now. 
You  see,  there  are  at  least  three  regiments  of  Irish  in 
De  Villeroy's  army,  and  I  don't  believe  Eugene  has 
ten  soldiers  of  that  nation  under  him.  Besides,  the 
man  had  a  louis  d'or  of  this  year's  late  coinage;  that 
proves  he  has  seen  French  paymaster  very  recently. 
Our  commandant  is  so  well  satisfied  of  him  that  the  fel- 
low was  released  within  two  hours  after  being  brought 
here  and  assigned  a  sergeant's  quarters  and  rations. 
Egad,  that's  he,  over  there."  The  lieutenant  points  to  a 
soldierly  figure  in  the  crowd  in  front  of  il  duomo,  and 


Il6  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

Villiers's  eyes  grow  so  big  they  almost  start  from 
his  head  as  they  encounter  those  of  his  trooper  serv- 
ant, Teddy  O'Bourke,  who,  from  very  force  of  habit, 
sends  a  shiver  through  him  by  saluting  him. 

Fortunately,  the  French  lieutenant  thinks  the  mili- 
tary salutation  is  for  him,  and  returns  it.  But  Sydney, 
looking  around  with  a  sinking  heart,  sees  his  Irish 
servant  is  following  him,  though  fortunately  at  a  dis- 
tance and  with  some  circumspection. 

"  I  rather  imagine  the  man  has  been  in  the  cathedral 
thanking  Heaven  for  his  escape,"  remarks  the  French 
lieutenant.  "All  Irishmen  are  good  Churchmen." 

"  Yes,  and  have  an  eye  for  pretty  girls,"  laughs  the 
troubadour  uneasily,  for  he  has  noticed  Teddy  has  put 
glance  on  one  or  two  comely  females,  a  great  crowd  of 
women  being  about  il  duomo,  as  is  usual  in  most  Italian 
cities. 

"  Well,  here  we  are  at  the  Golden  Juggler,"  says 
young  De  Terrail,  and  the  two  enter  that  hostlery, 
Sydney's  heart  considerably  lighter,  for  he  knows  the 
report  of  Eugene's  having  marched  north  of  the  Po, 
having  come  from  Teddy  O'Bourke,  must  be  a  lie  in- 
vented by  the  ready  witted  Irishman,  to  make  his  com- 
ing pleasant  to  his  captors. 

Even  as  he  sits  at  table  with  his  lieutenant  friend,  a 
moment's  hasty  consideration  shows  Villiers  that  this 
helps  his  plan.  The  French  commandant,  being  at 
ease  as  regards  attack,  will  be  more  susceptible  to  sur- 
prise. But  the  danger  of  his  servant's  presence  in  Mi- 
randola  strikes  the  English  officer  so  strongly  it  would 
take  away  his  appetite  were  he  not  famishing. 

However,  reflecting  that  a  spy  should  be  always  at 
his  ease,  he  contrives  to  chat  over  the  Lachrima  Christi 
of  their  fyost,  which  is  very  excellent,  quite  easily  to 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  lijr 

the  French  lieutenant.  Incidentally,  he  finds  out  a  few 
facts  as  regards  the  strength  of  the  garrison  which 
agree  with  the  information  the  Lady  Metia  had  given 
him ;  likewise  that  De  Vivans,  though  he  is  a  brave,  is 
a  rash  and  careless  soldier,  and  has  set  himself  down  in 
what  he  considers  winter  quarters  in  this  capital  with- 
out that  care  and  circumspection  as  to  outposts  a' cau- 
tious commander  would  have  taken,  especially  when 
Eugene  of  Savoy,  even  if  he  has  recrossed  the  Po,  is 
still  within  striking  distance  of  him. 

Then  the  conversation  ranging  from  military  matters 
goes  to  the  approaching  ballet  given  by  the  princess, 
likewise  the  banquet,  Ambrose  chatting  merrily,  and 
saying:  "  This  is  going  to  be  a  grand  fete.  The 
Princess  Maria,  who  is  French  to  her  heart's  blood, 
and  between  ourselves,  is  devoted  to  De  Vivans,  has 
planned  the  thing  charmingly.  At  the  great  banquet 
the  tables  will  be  set  in  the  theater;  I  sit  between  that 
pert  little  Gianetta  and  the  beautiful  Lady  Mirabelle 
Martana,  two  as  coquettish  maids  of  honor  as  ever  tried 
for  military  heart." 

"And  caught  one,  eh?"  laughs  Villiers.  "But  I 
know  little  of  these  things.  At  banquets  the  trouba- 
dours sing  at  the  side.  They  receive  the  smiles  of 
pretty  women  no  oftener  than  they  drink  the  wine." 

"  Ah,  that  will  not  be  in  your  case,  sieur.    You  are 
noble." 
"  Yes,  but  still  a  troubadour — and  looker-on." 

"  And  a  looker-on  sees  so  much  of  the  play  of  life. 
To-night  please  put  your  eye  on  me.  I  am  invited  to 
the  royal  supper;  see  which  I  love  most,  the  Lady 
Gianetta  or  Mirabelle!  "  remarks  De  Terrail. 


Il8  tHE   FIGHTING   TROUfiADOUR. 

"  I'll  tell  you  now,"  laughs  the  troubadour,  "Am- 
brose de  Terrail  loves  neither.  He  left  his  heart  in 
France." 

"  How  so?  " 

"  I  see  a  chain  about  your  neck  that  betokens  a 
lady's  gage  d'amour." 

"  Sapristi!  "  laughs  the  lieutenant.  "  I  see  a  chain 
about  your  neck  also,  Sieur  Troubadour.  You  love  as 
well  as  I."  He  points  to  the  golden  links  that  bear 
the  miniature  of  Lucia  Vesey,  then  adds:  "  But  I 
must  be  at  the  citadel  for  change  of  guard." 

So  Villiers  and  the  young  lieutenant  saunter  out  of 
the  inn,  which  is  on  the  Contrada  d'Este,  and  quite 
near  the  palace.  Gazing  languidly  about,  the  emissary 
of  Prince  Eugene  gives  a  sigh  of  relief.  His  Irish 
phantom,  for  he  has  got  to  consider  Teddy  as  such,  is 
not  in  sight.  "  If  the  wretch  would  but  keep  away 
from  me  all  would  be  well,"  thinks  his  master,  gloom- 
ily. "  He  will  never  guess  I  live  in  the  palace." 

In  this  view  he  remembers  he  is  bidden  to  the 
princess's  supper,  and  also  that  royal  invitations  are 
commands.  Therefore,  after  a  few  light  words  with 
De  Terrail,  and  receiving  invitation  to  visit  him  at  his 
quarters,  Villiers  bids  his  new  friend  good-by,  and 
walks  rapidly  on  his  wry  through  the  streets  of  the 
city  that  are  now  gradually  losing  their  shoppers  and 
promenaders,  as  the  sun  is  sinking  over  the  distant 
Apennines.  The  drawbridges  at  the  gates  will  soon  be 
raised. 

In  expectation  of  this,  quite  a  line  of  wagons  are  be- 
ing rapidly  driven  toward  the  Porta  Modena,  and 
many  market  women  and  contadini  are  hurrying  to  the 
various  outlets  of  the  city,  fearing  they  will  be  de- 
tained all  night  and  have  to  spend  a  lira  for  the 


THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  119 

lege  of  fighting  vermin  in  the  pallets  of  the  poorer 
osterie  of  the  town ;  clean  straw  and  open  country  be- 
ing more  to  their  liking.  These  are  leavened  with 
French  soldiers  getting  toward  the  barracks  in  the 
citadel.  A  few  oil  lamps  are  being  lighted  by  enter- 
prising tradesmen. 

Under  one  of  these  Villiers,  as  he  strides  toward  the 
palace  entrance,  which  is  now  only  some  squares  away, 
sees  a  military  figure  and  gives  a  shudder.  His  Irish 
phantom  is  again  behind  him. 

At  first  he  walks  rapidly  on,  thinking  the  Irish- 
man, who  is  now  rigged  in  the  full  uniform  of  a 
French  sergeant,  will  not  see  him;  but  Teddy  has 
apparently  been  watching  for  his  master,  and  quickens 
his  steps  in  pursuit  as  Villiers  increases  his  pace. 

For  a  moment  the  captain  thinks  of  dodging  his  fol- 
lower, then  deciding  it  is  best  to  meet  this  danger,  per- 
mits the  Irish  sergeant  to  overtake  him,  which  Teddy's 
quick  steps  do  very  rapidly. 

To  Villiers's  astonishment  his  servant  doesn't  stop 
as  he  reaches  him,  but  keeps  his  pace,  and  leaves  the 
Englishman  startled  and  staring  at  him.  For  as  he 
has  passed  his  master's  ear  O'Bourke  has  whispered 
this  pleasant  suggestion:  "  Give  me  pass  to  the  palace 
or  we  are  both  dead  men,  yer  honor." 

A  few  moments  more  Villiers  overtakes  his  man, 
and,  passing  also,  says:  "  Follow  me.  Your  French 
uniform  is  passport  enough.  Go  in  as  if  you  had  busi- 
ness." 

Then  thanking  heaven,  the  gloom  of  the  night,  which 
is  now  rapidly  descending,  has  kept  from  observation 
this  quick  and  curious  interview,  Sydney  strides  on 
somewhat  in  advance  of  his  servant. 

Presenting  his  pass  to  the  sentries  at  the  ducal  gates, 


120  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

he  saunters  in,  but  inside  the  courtyard  pauses 
and  sees  the  Irishman  in  French  sergeant's  uniform 
step  briskly  past  saluting  the  sentry,  and  walk  straight 
across  the  courtyard  into  the  main  portals  of  the  build- 
ings. 

A  moment  after  Villiers  has  strolled  by  the  few 
lackeys  in  attendance  in  the  outer  vestibule  and  walked 
up  the  great  stairway.  Reaching  the  landing,  he  looks 
back  and  sees  the  Irish  sergeant  following  him,  yet  at 
a  cautious  distance. 

Some  French  officers  are  lounging  in  one  of  the 
main  reception  rooms  of  the  palace.  Probably  the 
few  careless  court  officials  either  do  not  notice  him — for 
the  oil  lamps  and  flambeaux  are  just  being  lighted  in 
the  hi:;h  corridors  and  public  rooms  of  the  great  build- 
ing— or  think  the  French  sergeant  is  some  orderly  bear- 
ing message  to  his  military  master,  for  none  give  heed 
or  pause  to  Teddy.  With  a  little  hope  in  his  heart,  Vil- 
liers turns  into  the  narrow  medieval  passageway  that 
leads  to  his  little  rooms  in  the  remote  pavilion,  and 
hears  the  military  step  behind  him. 

Two  minutes  later  he  has  cautiously  unlocked  and 
opened  the  door  of  his  apartments,  examined  them 
both,  and  admitted  his  Irish  servant,  whose  enlivening 
remark  as  he  salutes  is:  "  God  help  us  both,  yer 
honor." 

"  I  was  doing  very  well  until  you  came,"  rejoins 
his  scowling  master;  then  adds  severely:  "You  had 
made  your  point.  You  were  safe  in  the  French  bar- 
racks. All  you  had  to  do  was  to  keep  your  Irish 
tongue  very  close  and  eat  French  rations  every  day 
5tnd  walk  about  the  streets  of  Mirandola." 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  IZJ 

The  answer  that  comes  startles  the  English  captain : 
"  Bedad,  I  darsent  walk  about  the  streets  of  Miran- 
dola." 

"  Why  not?  " 

"  Because  that  bastely  Italian  Umberto  is  walking 
about  'em,  too." 

"You  saw  him?"  gasps  Villiers,  impressed  by  the 
danger  of  recognition  by  this  scoundrel,  who  he  is  now 
certain  has  been  a  French  spy,  at  all  events  employed 
by  some  one  inimical  to  Sir  Andrew  Vesey. 

"  I  saw  him  big  and  ugly  as  life.  And  faith,  I  think 
he  saw  ye,  but  couldn't  belave  his  eyes,  you  being 
shorn  of  moustache  and  walking  with  a  Frinch  lieuten- 
ant. Keep  yer  eye  peeled  for  'em,  yer  honor.  He'd 
have  yer  life  for  every  cut  he  got  from  Sergeant 
Schwartz's  cane." 

"  I'll  see  the  villain  does  not  recognize  me,"  returns 
Sydney  shortly.  "  Now  tell  me  your  story.  By  all 
the  gods,  how  came  you  here?  " 

"  Faith,  that's  easy  telling.  I  was  taken  prisoner  by 
the  bloody  Frinch." 

"  Your  German  uniform?" 

"  Be  me  soul,  that  was  the  luck  of  it.  When  ye  had 
gone  away,  yer  honor,  and  the  sun  getting  up  good 
and  warm,  I  took  off  every  stitch  that  had  been  wet 
swimming  the  river  and  put  'em  on  the  bushes  of  a 
thicket  to  dry,  and  thin,  begorra,  still  feeling  a  chill 
in  me  bones,  I  commenced  to  run  about  dressed  in  my 
skin  like  Adam,  barring  a  pair  of  cavalry  boots  to  keep 
the  prickles  and  burrs  off  of  me  feet.  Be  me  sowl,  the 
first  thing  I  know  a  hussar  vidette  was  around  me. 
Frinch,  I  saw  by  their  uniform,  and  before  I  knew 
much  more  they  had  seized  me  and  the  horses,  but 
by  the  blessing  of  God,  they  didn't  find  my  uniform, 


122  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

which  would  have  told  them  I  was  an  inimy.  So  they 
ran  me  along  quite  uncourteously  to  the  guard  house 
in  this  blessed  town  of  Mirandola. 

"  Thin  they  took  me  before  the  gineral,  De  Vivans, 
I  think  his  name  is;  bless  his  confiding,  ginerous  heart. 
I  knew  there  was  three  Irish  regiments  in  Villeroy's 
army  and  divilish  few  of  me  nation  in  the  emperor's 
ranks.  So  I  commenced  to  jabber  about  belonging  to 
the  rigiment  of  Dillon  and  being  captured  at  Canneto 
and  making  a  hairbreadth's  escape  half  naked  with  two 
cavalry  horses  I  stole  from  Eugene.  My  being  wet 
and  having  swam  the  river  half  proved  me  story,  the 
new  gold  louis  I'd  got  from  that  baste  Umberto  settled 
it.  And  thin  I  commenced  to  talk  about  me  cousin, 
the  Chevalier  Burke,  who  is  in  the  Frinch  service  in 
Cremona,  I  belave.  Betwain  me  Irish  and  De 
Vivans's  Frinch,  he  concluded  I  was  surely  an  escaped 
sergeant  of  Dillon's  rigiment.  Tare  an'  ages,  the  news 
I  told  him  made  him  so  happy  he  wanted  to  believe 
me.  Begob,  I  told  him  Eugene  was  in  retreat  across 
the  Po,  trying  to  save  his  communications  from  De 
Villeroy.  It  put  the  gineral  in  such  good  humor  that, 
by  me  soul,  he  gave  me  two  more  louis  and  ordered  a 
sergeant's  rations  and  quarters  for  me,  likewise  this 
blessed  uniform." 

"  He'll  order  something  else  for  you  if  you  are 
caught,"  suggests  Villiers  grimly. 

"  Faith  and  for  ye  also,  yer  honor,  I'm  thinking,"  re- 
turns Teddy,  though  he  tempers  his  unpleasant  retort 
with  a  jovial  smile. 

"  To  avoid  this,"  says  the  English  captain,  after  turn- 
ing the  matter  over  in  his  mind  for  a  minute  or  two, 
"  I  must  get  you  out  of  Mirandola  this  night." 

"  Git  me  out  of  Mirandola?    Faith,  I  wish  ye  could! 


THE  FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  12$ 

The  drawbridges  are  down  by  this  time,  and  if  they 
were  open,  how  would  ye  pass  me  at  the  gates?  " 

"  That's  my  business.  I've  important  work  for  you, 
an  errand  that  will  give  you  three  stripes  upon  your 
sleeves  in  the  army  of  Eugene,  and  save  you  from  the 
noose  here." 

"  You  don't  mean  it,  yer  honor." 

"  Indeed  I  do,"  returns  .Villiers,  who  has  now  de- 
termined to  make  use  of  Teddy  in  carrying  to  Eugene 
the  plan  of  operations  he  has  formulated  for  the  sur- 
prise. He  could  have  sent  this  by  a  carrier  pigeon 
of  the  princess,  but  that  would  not  have  guided  the 
regiment  of  Staremberg  to  the  goose-pen  in  the  little 
grove  in  which  is  concealed  the  entrance  to  the  secret 
passageway  to  the  ducal  gardens.  O'Bourke  sent  out 
through  this  passage  can,  on  his  return,  conduct  the 
regiment  of  Staremberg  to  the  very  spot,  something 
they  might  have  not  discovered  easily  in  the  darkness 
of  the  night,  during  which  they  must  make  this  at- 
tempt. 

"  You  will  stay  here,"  he  orders  shortly,  "  and  not 
leave  these  rooms  until  I  take  you  out  to  freedom." 

"  God  bless  yer  honor.  Have  ye  a  winged  horse,  or 
a  Pegagus,  as  Father  O'Rourke  said  in  Latin,  for  me  to 
fly  out  over  the  walls?  " 

"  That's  my  business.  But  to  make  everything  sure, 
so  you  may  pass  the  French  videttes  upon  the  Secchia 
safely,  slip  into  that  room,  strip  off  your  sergeant's  uni- 
form, and  get  into  the  sheepskin  I  have  there.  For  this 
affair  I  am  going  to  make  you  a  shepherd." 

"  Bedad,  is  that  all  I  am  to  wear?    It's  a  cold  night." 

"  Except  those  sandals.  Step  in  and  obey  me  while 
I  write  the  dispatches." 

The  Irishman  being  engaged  in  his  change  of  toilet 


124  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

in  the  adjoining  chamber,  his  master  looks  about  for 
paper,  but  only  finds  a  few  sheets  of  music  that  he 
has  brought  from  Pasquale's  to  run  the  notes  over. 
Upon  these  Villiers,  sitting  down,  writes  lucidly  and 
accurately  his  plan  of  attack,  suggesting  that  the  regi- 
ment of  Staremberg  be  selected  to  pass  by  the  under- 
ground tunnel  into  the  ducal  gardens,  adding:  "  He 
who  brings  you  this  will  guide  the  surprise  party  to  the 
spot  of  entry.  In  case  the  attack  is  to  be  made  as  I 
have  planned  it,  I  have  verbally  directed  a  certain 
signal  to  be  given  to  me  by  the  bearer  of  this  upon  the 
evening  of  the  assault,  not  later  than  8  p.m.  Receiving 
it,  I  shall  know  all  is  well.  Not  finding  it,  I  shall  be 
sure  your  Highness  has  determined  it  is  impossible  to 
carry  out  the  affair.  Be  very  careful  of  this,  for  on  it 
will  depend  probably  the  lives  of  the  regiment  intro- 
duced into  the  ducal  gardens.  If  anything  should  in- 
terfere with  my  part  of  the  affair,  or  prevent  or  post- 
pone the  entertainment  and  fete  given  to  the  French 
officers,  I  shall  send  your  Highness  word  by  carrier 
pigeon." 

Reading  this  over  very  carefully,  and  making  sure 
that  it  contains  nothing  which  in  case  of  capture  will 
compromise  the  Princess  of  Mirandola,  he  carefully 
initials  each  page.  Then  he  jumps  up  with  a  muttered 
curse,  o'erturning  the  table,  for  to  him  come  from 
the  next  room  the  faint  scream  of  a  woman  and  a  wild 
Irish  yell.  Dashing  into  his  little  chamber,  Villiers 
starts  aghast,  for  the  fair  Princess  of  Mirandola  is  ut- 
tering little  plaintive  cries  and  gazing  with  horrified 
eyes  upon  Teddy,  who  is  bashfully  concealing  his  shep- 
herd's legs  with  his  French  sergeant's  cloak. 


THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  1 25 

"  God  of  mercy,  is  it  a  fairy  or  a  banshee,  yer 
honor?  "  asks  the  Irishman,  with  staring  eyes.  "  Begad, 
she  popped  in  upon  me  out  of  the  very  wall!  " 

And  in  truth  the  Princess  Maria  might  be  a  fairy. 
Dressed  in  her  court  costume,  she  looks  graceful  as  a 
fluttering  slyph,  her  white  arms  that  she  is  waving 
wildly  and  gleaming  shoulders,  which  are  shuddering, 
coming  out  of  clouds  of  spangled  gauze,  a  long  court 
train  looped  up  behind  over  petticoat  of  shimmering 
satin,  displays  petite  trembling  feet  in  high-heeled 
jeweled  slippers. 

"  O  Dio! "  gasps  the  royal  lady,  with  pale,  stam- 
mering lips,  "  his  uniform!  We  are  discovered.  We — 
we  are  undone.  De  Vivans's  spy  is  striving  to  conceal 
himself!  " 

"This  French  uniform  is  that  of  my  servant, 
madame,  who  entered  the  town  to  join  me.  He  is  here 
to  carry  to  Prince  Eugene  the  exact  memoranda  of  our 
surprise,"  whispers  Villiers  to  the  half  fainting  beauty, 
adding  rather  sternly:  "It  is  well  you  have  come, 
though  God  knows  how  you  got  here,  otherwise  this 
would  have  delayed  me,  for  I  must  show  you  the  exact 
details  of  the  affair  we  plan." 

Supporting  her  to  the  next  room,  for  the  shock  has 
been  great  to  the  princess,  and  apparently  she  likes  to 
feel  his  arm  about  her,  Sydney,  after  reviving  her 
with  fan  and  wet  towel,  which  shows  Maria's  beauty 
is  all  natural,  discusses  the  plan  with  her.  As  he  fin- 
ishes, she  claps  her  little  hands,  for  her  spirits  have 
come  back  to  her,  and  cries  admiringly :  "  Bravo !  It 
is  worthy  of  Eugene  himself.  I'll  do  my  part  of  it 
if  you  do  yours,"  adding  with  arch  glance:  "I — I 
came  here  to  get  a  peep  of  you.  The  time  seemed 
long  till  I  should  see  your  face  at  supper."  Her  lips 


1 26  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

seek  his  as  she  chides:  "  You  have  been  away  from 
the  palace  all  this  long  day.  I  had  hoped  to  see  you 
in  the  gardens,  my  troubadour." 

"  I  was  inspecting  the  French  garrison,  in  order  to 
properly  perfect  this  plan  of  operations.  Now, 
madame,  I  must  send  this  man  away  immediately,"  an- 
swers Villiers  shortly,  for  the  princess's  lips  upon  his 
make  him  ashamed  now  that  he  has  seen  the  woman 
to  whom  he  has  given  his  love,  this  day  living, 
still  pure,  still  innocent,  in  the  house  of  Pasquale,  the 
music  master.  Therefore,  though  Maria's  loveliness 
is  great,  her  archness  enchanting,  her  vivacity  alluring, 
and  her  lips  tender,  his  are  chilly. 

She  notes  this  and  whispers  to  him:  "  Cielo!  your 
lips  are  cold!  Have  you  not  yet  recovered  from  the 
shock  of  my  sudden  appearance?  There  is  a  secret 
passage  from  my  chamber  to  your  apartments,"  she 
blushes  hotly  here,  and  mutters:  "  But  of  that  after- 
ward," and  her  lips  seem  to  grow  more  tender. 

But  he  puts  her  aside,  whispering  sharply: 
"  Diavolo,  remember  my  man  in  the  next  room," 
though  he  cannot  help  reflecting:  "  What  a  change  is 
in  me.  With  these  clinging  lips  upon  mine,  this  fairy 
form  within  my  arms,  four  months  ago  I  had  been  fire 
as  well  as  she."  But  Lucia's  picture  is  still  upon  his 
heart,  and  he  commands  sharply:  "Now  to  busi- 
ness! "  and  calls  loudly:  "  Teddy!  " 

At  this  Maria  favors  the  gentleman  with  a  little 
piquant  frown,  and  says  poutingly :  "  The  winter  air 
of  Mirandola  seems  to  be  chilly,  sir." 

"  Bedad,  your  ladyship,  it  is  in  this  light  rig,"  as-. 
sents  Mr.  O'Bourke  genially,  as  he  enters  in  hig  short 
sheepskin  sack,  bare  legs  and.  sarjdaled  feet., 


THE  FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  1*7 

"  Sapristi!  "  cries  her  vivacious  highness,  "  we  must 
make  our  Irishman  a  better  shepherd  than  this." 

And  the  little  volatile  witch  goes  to  ruffling 
O'Bourke's  red  hair,  and  slings  the  goatherd's  pouch 
upon  him  with  its  chestnuts,  but  cries  laughingly: 
"  His  breath  already  smells  of  garlic.  In  that  he  is  a 
more  perfect  shepherd  than  you  were,  my  captain. 
Now,  my  wild  Irish  devil,"  for  Villiers  has  deemed  it 
best  to  explain  to  her  the  curious  entry  of  his  man  into 
her  capital,  "  here's  five  gold  pieces  to  add  to  those 
of  that  fool  De  Vivans,  and  if  you  do  your  duty  truly 
and  are  successful,  one  hundred  more!" 

"  Be  me  sowl,  I'll  buy  an  estate  in  Ireland  and  be- 
come a  count  meself.  Me  ancestors  were  kings,  and 
made  love  to  pretty  maids  of  honor  like  other  gin- 
tlemin,"  returns  the  grinning  varlet. 

Here  Villiers,  who  dare  not  tell  Teddy  he  is  banter- 
ing royalty,  cries  sternly  :  "  Silence !  Make  up  that 
French  uniform  in  a  bundle." 

Then  he  securely  ties  the  secret  message  to  Eugene 
upon  the  under  side  of  the  fellow's  sheepskin,  also 
concealing  it  within  its  folds.  "Come  with  me!"  he 
commands,  and  to  the  astonishment  of  the  princess 
takes  four  candles  from  the  mantelpiece  and  puts 
them  in  his  pocket. 

"  To  light  your  way  through  the  subterranean  pas- 
sage ?  "  she  asks. 

"  Yes,  also  to  illustrate  to  my  messenger  a  private 
signal.  My  words  he  might  mistake,  but  my  actions 
he  will  remember."  Drawing  her  aside,  he  adds  under 
his  voice:  "  If  in  an  hour  I  do  not  return  I  am  dead, 
your  Highness.  In  that  case,  for  your  own  safety  and 
that  of  your  ducal  father,  think  no  more  of  this  affair." 

"  Dead ! "  shudders  Maria ;  then  pleads  with  eyes, 


128  THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

lips,  and  tongue:  "  Don't  risk  your  life.  You've  made 
it  too  valuable  to  me,  mi  adorato!  Kiss  me  before  you 
go!" 

With  hurried  salute  the  captain  leaves  her. 

Then  he  commands:  "Take  up  that  uniform, 
O'Bourke,  and  follow  me." 

A  moment  after  he  shows  the  way  down  the  stairway 
in  the  wall  to  his  Irish  servant,  cursing  himself  that 
he  is  weak  enough  to  let  glory  make  him  for  one  mo- 
ment appear  untrue  to  the  love  Lucia  Vesey  has  made 
burn  so  brightly  in  his  heart  this  day. 

Leaving  the  palace,  Villiers  cautiously  leads  Teddy 
through  the  garden  walks,  which  are  now  in  the  dark- 
ness quite  deserted,  and  after  some  search,  for  he  is 
not  very  familiar  with  the  place,  finds  the  little  kiosk. 
Opening  the  trap,  which  is  carefully  concealed  by  a 
seat  of  the  summer  house,  he  descends  the  little  shaft, 
followed  by  his  servant,  who  whispers:  "Saints  save 
us!  Are  ye  going  down  in  a  well?  " 

Carefully  closing  the  opening  above  them,  and  light- 
ing one  of  the  candles,  Villiers  says  to  his  Irish  serv- 
ant :  "  Watch  carefully.  If  at  the  bottom  of  this  shaft 
when  you  return  two  nights  from  now  you  place  four 
candles  in  pairs,  each  crossed  as  I  am  doing,  I  shall 
know  that  you  have  delivered  my  message  to  Prince 
Eugene,  and  that  the  attack  is  to  be  made.  Do  you 
understand  me?  " 

"  Faith  and  I  do,  yer  honor."  . 

"  Now,"  says  Villiers,  picking  up  the  candles,  "  place 
them  to  indicate  your  errand  has  been  done  properly." 

"  But  me  errand  has  not  been  done  properly." 

"  Ods,  fool!  Place  them  as  you  will  when  you  re- 
turn." 

"  Ah,  now  I  understand,  yer  honor,"  and  Teddy  ar- 


r 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  1*9 

ranges  the  four  candles  at  the  bottom  of  the  shaft, 
making  with  each  pair  a  Roman  cross.  "  Musha,  is 
that  to  yer  liking?  " 

"  Yes,  certainly." 

"  Begorra,  I  could  have  done  it  without  yer  taking 
on  so  much  trouble  about  it." 

"  Sdeath !  Don't  discuss  with  me  an  affair  of  life 
and  death  to  hundreds  of  your  comrades,"  mutters  Vil- 
liers.  "  Now  we'll  bury  that  French  uniform  here." 

Two  minutes  after,  this  being  done,  he  says :  "Come, 
I  have  no  time  for  discussion."  With  this,  Villiers  leads 
the  way  with  lighted  candle  through  the  long  sub- 
terranean passage,  Teddy  following  him  and  shiver- 
ing a  little,  as  the  night  is  very  cold  and  the  masonry 
immediately  under  the  moat  quite  wet. 

Coming  to  the  other  shaft,  Villiers  ascends  it,  and, 
opening  the  gate  of  the  sheep  pen  for  his  follower, 
commands:  "  Note  carefully  this  grove  with  the 
two  tall  poplar  trees — it  is  opposite  the  third  bastion 
south  of  the  Concordia  gate.  Remember,  when 
Eugene  commands,  to  bring  his  troops  to  the  goose 
pen  and  show  them  the  shaft!  Now  as  quick  as 
your  legs  will  take  you  to  the  camp  of  Prince  Eugene. 
Gonzaga  is  a  little  northwest.  Look  at  the  north 
star  there;  take  your  course  by  that." 

"  I  have  no  pass  to  cross  the  river  at  Cor.cordia! " 

"  Swim  it.     Don't  go  near  Concordia." 

"  Tare  an'  ages,  the  night  is  cold." 

"Exercise  will  keep  your  legs  from  shivering;  run! 
By  the  morning  Prince  Eugene  must  have  this  mes- 
sage." 

"  Bedad,  it's  twenty  miles." 

"  He  will  give  you  twenty  crowns.  Besides,  recol- 
lect what  she  promised." 


1 30  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

"Oh,  yer  lady  of  honor,  eh?"  remarks  Teddy. 
"  Bedad,  yer  honor  seems  anxious  to  get  back  to  her  "; 
for  Villiers  is  already  descending  into  the  subter- 
ranean passage. 

Tramping  along  this  as  he  returns  to  the  palace, 
the  English  captain  thinks  confidently:  "The  sur- 
prise is  arranged.  Barring  his  death,  of  which  all 
good  soldiers  must  take  their  chances,  Teddy  will  ar- 
rive at  Prince  Eugene's  headquarters  to-morrow  morn- 
ing." 

But  perhaps  he  would  not  be  so  certain  of  the  issue 
of  this  affair  had  he  known  that  Teddy,  after  getting 
some  miles  away,  had  suddenly  scratched  his  head  and 
uttered  a  gasp  of  dismay.  "  Be  me  sowl,"  the  creature 
mutters,  "  the  captain  never  gave  me  thim  candles 
to  give  him  the  signal  with.  God  help  us  all,  I  darsent 
go  back  for  thim!  What  shall  I  do?  " 


CHAPTER  XI. 

COVERS  FOR  TWO. 

Too  proud  to  reproach  Villiers,  the  princess  has 
noticed  his  kisses  have  grown  cold  since  last  he  saw 
her.  This  puts  her  in  a  raging  passion,  for  royal 
beauty  is  not  accustomed  to  be  slighted. 

Even  as  Villiers  has  left  her  to  get  his  Irish  servant 
outside  the  walls,  her  little  foot  is  patting  the  floor 
angrily,  and  she  is  communing  to  herself:  "  This  Eng- 
lishman of  double  face  came  here  this  morning  and 
seemed  as  eager  for  my  kisses  as  I  was  for  his,  and  now 
this  evening  his  lips  are  cold  as  Alpine  snows.  Tis  not 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  13! 

Contemplation  of  his  desperate  military  duty  makes 
him  so  formal  and  distrait.  Men  fight  the  better  for 
loving,  and  love  the  better  for  fighting."  Then,  being 
of  a  philosophical  though  vivacious  disposition,  Maria 
grinds  her  pretty  white  teeth  together,  and  queries: 
"  What  woman  has  come  between  us?  This  afternoon 
my  gallant  was  busy  at  the  garrison  on  military  recon- 
noissance.  Only  two  of  my  ladies  have  seen  him  since 
his  love  grew  cold,  Metia  and  Bianca.  Which  one?" 

Returning  to  her  own  apartments  with  a  face  as  in- 
nocent as  an  angel's  and  a  mind  in  its  feminine  way 
crafty  as  Machiavelli's,  it  chancing  to  be  the  hour  of 
attendance  of  both  suspected  ladies,  by  deft  ques- 
tioning she  soons  determines  Metia  is  the  culprit,  for 
the  girl  blushes  when  Maria  mentions  Villiers  to  her, 
and  twits  her  with  having  been  kissed  as  a  goose  girl. 
A  moment  latef  she  asks  jeeringly:  "As  serving 
wench,  was  your  gallant  again  polite?  " 

Though  her  maid  of  honor  is  too  wary  a  courtier  to 
acknowledge  the  second  offense,  her  embarrassed 
manner  gives  the  princess  some  pangs  and  lots  of 
rage — so  much  that  she  determines  Metia  shall  see 
the  handsome  troubadour  alone  no  more,  and  fears,  if 
Villiers  attends  the  royal  supper  this  evening,  by 
some  accident  he  may  get  near  her  maid  of  honor,  who 
will  be  seated  at  the  lower  table,  where  his  more  hum- 
ble rank  has  compelled  her  to  place  her  troubadour. 

"  Heavens,  how  the  jade  would  like  to  have  him  by 
her  side!"  she  snarls  unto  herself.  "If  my  Sydney 
sups  not  at  the  public  table  that  danger  is  averted." 

True,  she  might  stand  Metia  in  her  anteroom  at 
work  at  the  big  embroidery  frame,  where  she  and  her 
ladies,  mostly  her  ladies,  are  working  a  great  tapestry 
Jion  to  present  to  her  cousin,  the  Cardinal  d'Este,  at; 


13*  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

carnival,  or  keep  the  girl  standing  behind  her  chair 
upon  the  dias  at  the  ducal  supper  table.  But  this  will 
perhaps  look  too  marked,  the  princess  thinks;  besides, 
another  idea  appeals  more  pleasantly  to  her  amorous 
spirit. 

"  Pardie!  my  poor  gallant  shall  not  starve  even  if  he 
misses  royal  table,"  she  laughs  to  herself;  then  medi- 
tates: "  His  raiment  looked  but  too  poor  for  his  de- 
serts! Dieu  merci,  he  shall  sup  with  me  alone  and  in  a 
garb  worthy  the  troubadour  of  old." 

With  this  in  her  vivacious  mind,  Maria  calls  to  her 
La  Marchesa  di  Monteferrato.  "  I  dare  trust  no  more 
women,"  she  thinks.  "  Bianca  has  already  seen  my 
gallant.  Her  magnificent  but  slightly  matured  beauty 
has  not  caught  his  heart." 

With  this  she  holds  consultation  with  the  mistress 
of  her  maids,  giving  her  an  errand,  and  Villiers 
on  his  return  from  the  subterranean  passage,  looking 
at  his  dress,  already  soiled  with  mud  and  moat  drip- 
pings, and  thinking:  "  These  are  sorry  garments  to 
present  at  the  royal  table,"  suddenly  finds  a  generous, 
if  a  jealous,  mistress  has  thought  of  him. 

A  knock  is  heard  upon  his  door,  and,  opening  it, 
the  Lady  Bianca  stands  before  him,  followed  by  a  page 
bearing  garments  fit  for  a  duke,  though  of  somewhat 
earlier  fashion. 

The  boy  at  her  direction  placing  these  before  the 
Englishman,  Sydney  sees  a  purple  velvet  doublet,  laced 
in  gold,  immense  ballooned  trunks  of  violet  satin 
slashed  in  white  and  pink,  and  hose  of  matching  silk, 
with  jeweled  cap,  belt,  and  dagger,  as  well  as  velvet 
Venetian  boots. 

As  Villiers  puts  a  crown  into  the  page's  hand  and 
the  youth  departs,  L,a  Marchesa  di  Monteferrato  whis- 


THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  133 

pers:  "  My  royal  mistress  and  I  found  these  in  one  of 
her  old  clothes  presses." 

"  Zounds !  these  are  worthy  of  a  prince,"  exclaims 
the  Englishman. 

"  They  were  the  property  of  a  great  prince,  Giovanni 
Pico,  who  two  hundred  years  ago  was  called  the 
Phoenix.  He  lived  when  troubadours  were  plenty  as 
blackberries  on  the  Sabine  hills.  It  is  a  fitting  present 
even  from  la  Princessa  of  Mirandola,"  returns  la 
marchesa,  apparently  proud  of  her  mistress's  wealth, 
though  once  or  twice  she  looks  rather  curiously  at  the 
gentleman  before  her. 

"  It  is  a  magnificent  one,"  answers  Villiers,  as  he 
notes  the  jewels  on  the  cap  are  diamonds  and  the  orna- 
ments of  the  belt  and  poniard  sheath  are  jewels  set 
in  gold. 

"  After  the  manner  of  her  race,  the  Princess  Maria  is 
generous  to  her  friends,"  murmurs  the  court  lady. 
"  She  also  sends  to  you,  Sieur  Troubadour,  this  purse," 
tendering  an  embroidered  bag  heavy  with  golden 
coins. 

"  I  beg  you  return  those  to  her  highness,"  mutters 
the  English  soldier  haughtily.  "  For  her  clothes  and 
decking  I  thank  her  highness  humbly.  Her  gold  I 
can  only  return  with  my  humble  thanks." 

"  'Tis  but  the  douceur  of  a  troubadour,"  suggests 
la  marchesa,  a  strange  light  glowing  in  her  eyes. 

"  It  is  one  I  am  not  accustomed  to  accept  from 
ladies,"  dissents  the  captain  in  Anglo-Saxon  firmness. 

"  Then  I  am  to  return  it  to  her  highness?  " 

"  Yes,  with  my  homage." 

"  This  will  astound  her.  Of  course,  she  expects  to 
remunerate  you  for  your  services." 

"  Tis  a  remuneration  I  cannot  accept,"  says  Vil- 


134  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

Hers  angrily.     "  She  knows  I  am  a ,"  he  pauses 

here  and  snaps  his  jaws  together,  "  a  troubadour." 

"  And  a  very  curious  one,"  thinks  la  marchesa,  "  one 
too  haughty  to  receive  the  guerdon  of  his  service." 
This  adds  to  her  suspicion  of  the  man,  who,  every  time 
she  looks  at  him,  reminds  her  more  strongly  of  him  who 
deserted  her  and  scorned  her  love  at  the  babbling  of  a 
child.  She  is  delighted,  however,  to  return  the  purse 
to  her  girdle,  for  the  money  in  it  had  been  her  own, 
and  she  had  offered  it  as  if  from  the  princess  to  see 
if  this  man  was  really  a  troubadour  who  sang  for  hire. 

"  This  note  from  my  mistress,"  she  says  simply,  and, 
placing  a  perfumed  missive  in  Villiers's  hand,  makes 
her  adieu,  wondering:  "  How  can  I  make  sure  he  is 
the  man  who  flaunted  me?" 

As  for  the  object  of  her  thoughts,  he,  in  his  chamber, 
has  opened  the  billet  doux,  and  read: 
"  MY  SHEPHERD  BOY: 

"  I  deem  it  not  wise  you  sup  at  the  royal  table ;  too 
many  French  officers  will  be  present,  and  that  will 
be  unnecessary  contact  and  therefore  dangerous. 

"  Though  I  banish  you  from  my  hospitality,  I  accept 
yours.  Garb  yourself  in  the  magnificence  I  send  and 
wait  and  see  what  will  be  done  for  my  troubadour  by 
his  QUEEN  OF  LOVE." 

Villiers  looks  out  of  his  chamber  into  his  sitting- 
room,  and  sees  lackeys  setting  his  table  with  snowiest 
of  damask,  sparkling  Venetian  crystal,  and  the  deli- 
cate china  of  Sevres.  A  few  minutes  after  they  silently 
depart,  leaving  behind  them  cold  partridges,  oysters, 
a  great  game  pasty,  fruit,  and  champagne  cooled  in 
ice.  These,  with  half  a  dozen  other  delicacies,  sweet- 
meats, and  confections,  upon  table  decked  with  flow- 
ers, make  a  supper  fit  for  Lucullus. 


THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  135 

There  are  covers  for  two.  He  guesses  the  princess's 
plan. 

In  an  instant  he  has  locked  and  bolted  at  top  and 
bottom  the  strong  door  of  his  sitting-room,  which 
leads  to  the  outer  corridor.  In  a  short  ten  minutes  he 
has  arrayed  himself  in  the  gorgeous  vestments  of  a 
prince  of  troubadours. 

Then  feeling  that  all  chance  of  intrusion  from  the 
outside  is  eliminated,  he  sits  himself  down  to  await  the 
appearance  of  her  highness,  very  well  guessing  the 
secret  path  she  will  take  to  his  hospitality;  only,  being 
extremely  hungry,  he  grows  impatient  and  soothes 
himself  with  a  Broseley  clay  pipe  and  Virginia  tobacco, 
these  luxuries  having  been  brought  in  as  an  addenda 
to  the  supper. 

He  is  in  the  midst  of  his  second  pipe  when  he  hears 
from  his  little  chamber  a  sweet  soft  voice,  whispering 
half  bashfully,  half  timidly:  "Where  are  you?  My 
troubadour,  where  are  you?  " 

A  second  after  the  Princess  Maria  stands  at  the 
door  of  his  sitting-room,  and  gives  a  little  cry  of  joy, 
for  a  troubadour  as  handsome  as  ever  strode  castle 
hall,  with  strained  hose  upon  his  muscular  legs  denot- 
ing the  play  of  every  muscle,  and  the  lithe  body  of  a 
military  athlete  in  tight-laced  doublet,  with  jeweled 
cap  upon  his  flowing  locks,  stands  before  her. 

To  him  the  royal  minx  springs,  nestles  in  his  arms, 
and  cries:  "Mi  Madrc,  but  thou  art  a  pretty  popin- 
jay. Now  you  are  decked  for  love  and  music." 

"And  eating  also,  your  Highness,"  suggests  Vil- 
liers,  turning  longing  eyes  upon  the  magnificent  table. 
"  You  forget,  my  Princess,  I  have  not  supped." 

"  Oh,  forgive  me  for  being  so  careless  of  your  great 
appetite,  my  military  gentleman,"  she  laughs,  then 


IJ<5  THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

pouts :  "  I  am  hungry  also,  though  I  had  forgotten  it 
at  sight  of  you.  I  only  played  with  the  wing  of  a 
pullet,  and  appeared  to  taste  champagne  at  my  father's 
table.  The  duke  hinted  he  feared  I  was  in  a  decline. 
But  I  don't  look  it,  do  I?  "  She  rises  on  to  the  tips 
of  her  little  slippers  to  increase  her  height,  and  stands 
before  him,  her  white  arms  extended,  the  picture  of 
youth,  beauty,  and  love. 

"  Sapristi,  your  Highness,"  grins  the  cavalier,  "  you 
look  more  fit  to  be  eaten  than  to  eat." 

At  this  Maria  gives  him  a  little  playful  pat,  and  cries: 
"  So  that's  the  reason  you  haven't  asked  me  to  your 
supper,  signore,"  adding:  "  You  will  have  to  be  my 
servitor,  for  I  dare  have  no  lackeys  here  to  wait  on 
us." 

"  That  would  have  destroyed  half  the  pleasure  of  the 
banquet.  It  is  my  delight  to  wait  on  beauty  such  as 
yours,"  whispers  Villiers.  His  eyes  cannot  help  grow- 
ing a  little  impassioned  at  the  rare  loveliness  of  his 
charming  guest. 

For  the  princess  looks  like  a  fairy,  perhaps  not  a  very 
good  fairy,  but  still  a  very  lovely  fairy,  as  she  drapes 
her  gauzes  about  her  and  sinks  into  a  chair  at  the  sup- 
per table,  and,  gazing  archly  at  him,  says:  "You 
call  me  '  your  Highness  '  and  '  Madame  '  and  '  Prin- 
cess.' My  name  to  you  is  Maria  when  we  are  together. 
Give  me  a  kiss  for  my  condescension,  and  call  it  to  me. 
It  will  be  the  first  time  I  have  heard  it  from  your  lips." 

And  Villiers,  muttering  to  himself,  "  Military  duty," 
does  so,  and  his  salute  is  warmer  than  the  kiss  he  had 
placed  upon  the  same  lips  this  afternoon.  Noting  this, 
her  eyes  grow  bright  with  joy.  Together  they  run 
through  the  first  course  of  their  meal,  he  attentive 
as  a  lover  should  be  to  every  little  want  of  his  charming 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  137 

mistress,  and  she  giving  him  little  caresses  between 
times,  their  chairs  grow  closer  and  closer  together 
as  the  champagne  that  is  now  flowing  begins  to  give 
their  eyes  greater  brightness. 

To  him  the  princess  is  whispering:  "  It  is  well,  my 
English  captain,  you  told  me  of  the  lies  of  your  Irish 
follower,  otherwise  De  Vivans's  delight,  as  he  boasted 
to  me  that  Prince  Eugene  had  fled  from  him  across  the 
Po,  would  have  made  me  fear  our  plans  had  gone 
amiss.  But  it  will  be  so  much  greater  surprise  for  our 
braggart  French  commandant  when  we  spring  upon 
him  our  attack  two  nights  from  now.  After  these 
swashbuckling  French  are  under  our  heels,  I'll  make 
you  my  prince  indeed.  What  think  you  of  being  Syd- 
ney of  Mirandola,  my  shepherd  lad?" 

But  before  he  can  answer  this  the  princess  rises 
and  whispers:  "  Gran  Dio!  some  one  listening  in  your 
chamber!  "  The  next  instant  Bianca  Gonzaga  steps 
into  the  sitting-room  and  courtesies  profoundly;  her 
soft,  sensuous  voice  murmurs :  "  I  have  come,  your 
Highness,  to  tell  you  that  the  duke  has  asked  after 
you." 

"  What  did  he  wish  to  say  to  me?" 

"  Your  Highness,  it  was  some  question  of  the  wines 
to  be  served  at  your  grand  banquet." 

"Idiot!"  cries  her  mistress,  "to  trouble  me  with 
this.  Dost  think  lam  the  butler  of  the  palace?"  Then 
she  sneers :  "  But,  Madame  la  Marchesa,  you  have 
stepped  in  upon  us  conveniently.  We  need  a  serving 
wench.  Quick!  Tuck. up  thy  court  train,  and  wait  on 
us  at  supper." 

"  Your  Highness,  my  mistress,  of  course,  I  stand 
behind  your  chair  if  you  command,"  murmurs  Bianca, 


138  THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

her  eyes,  that  have  been  imperious,  drooping  under  the 
princess's  steely  glance,  "  but  this  gentleman " 

"I  pray  you  will  not  serve  me,  Madame  la  Marchesa," 
cries  Villiers,  rising  up,  "  I  am  campaigner  enough  to 
help  myself." 

"  Thou'll  wait  upon  him  if  I  order  it,  Bianca,"  says 
her  mistress  in  low  but  dominant  tones.  "  You  know 
your  compact  with  me.  Diavolo!  shall  I  have  to 
humble  again  your  imperious  spirit?  " 

"  Your  Highness,  I  beg  you  not,"  interjects  the  Eng- 
lishman, who  fears  this  will  make  the  haughty  marchesa 
not  only  his  enemy,  but  that  of  the  princess  also, 
whether  she  recognizes  him  or  not.  "  Did  not  my 
hand  assist  your  Highness  properly?" 

"  Delightfully,"  whispers  the  princess,  looking  into 
his  eyes;  then  her  voice  grows  stern,  as  she  says:  "  To 
discipline  thy  spirit,  Marchesa,  behind  my  chair  for  the 
next  course.  'Twill  teach  you  not  to  interrupt  my 
privacy  with  foolish  message." 

With  low  courtesy  of  submission,  Bianca  tucks  up 
her  long  court  train  over  her  white  petticoat  of  satin, 
and  stands  in  full  costume  of  ceremony,  with  gleaming 
shoulders  and  polished  arms  glistening  like  the  snowy 
marble  of  Carrara,  and  eyes  flashing  like  a  Juno's,  be- 
hind her  mistress,  assisting  her  highness  to  a  larded 
quail,  and  at  Maria's  gesture  pours  out  a  glass  of  wine 
for  the  princess's  lips,  as  with  a  little  laugh  of  triumph 
the  royal  minx  goes  to  chatting  on  the  glories  of  her 
coming  ballet.  "  'Twas  called  '  The  Queen  of  Love,'  " 
she  remarks  to  Villiers,  "  but  since  you  are  here  I  have 
renamed  it  '  Venus  and  the  Troubadour.'  In  it  you 
will  sit  at  my  feet  and  sing  thy  love  songs  to  my  guitar. 
These  after  supper  we  will  rehearse."  Then  glancing 
carelesslv  over  her  white  shoulder  at  la  marchesa,  she 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  139 

continues:  "  Bianca  here  is  Juno,  queen  of  the  gods. 
She  is  haughty  enough  to  even  like  to  be  queen  of  me. 
Madame,  pour  out  champagne  for  us,  and  as  we  drink 
tell  us  the  glories  of  my  ballet.  Thou  hast  rehearsed 
them  oft  enough  to  know." 

"  Your  Highness  enters  first  as  Venus  with  courtly 
train  of  gods  and  goddesses,"  answers  la  marchesa. 
"  Then  the  Lady  Metia  is  to  trip  the  polka,  that  new 
dance  imported  from  Hungary.  In  it  she  will  look  like 
a  sylph." 

"  Never  mind  how  that  hussy  Metia  looks,"  cries 
Maria,  her  eyes  flashing.  "  Go  on  with  your  pro- 
gramme." 

"  Then  the  ladies  Floretta  and  Giulia  dance  the 
sarabande.  Afterward " 

But  here  her  mistress  screams:  "  Basta,  jade,  you 
are  spilling  wine  all  over  me!  " 

For  with  trembling  hand  la  marchesa  is  standing, 
her  gleaming  eyes  riveted  upon  Villiers's  neck,  just 
where  the  low  cut  doublet  leaves  it.  Her  glance  is 
fixed  upon  a  mole.  She  knows  it  well,  she  has  kissed 
it  many  times  by  the  shores  of  Lago  di  Maggiore. 
"  Your  Highness,  I — I  was  awkward,"  she  stammers 
in  confusion.  "  My  foot  slipped  upon  the  oaken  floor." 

"  Pish,  you  make  but  a  poor  soubrette,  my  haughty 
lady  of  honor,"  jeers  her  mistress.  "  Now  you  are  dis- 
ciplined, you  can  retire  and  bring  to  me  my  guitar,  but 
remember  my  privacy  is  not  again  to  be  intruded  on. 
I  charge  you,  stand  in  my  chamber  at  the  door  of  this 
secret  passage  and  look  to  it." 

With  lowly  courtesy  Bianca  takes  her  leave,  her 
eyes  giving  Villiers  one  fleeting  flash.  She  knows  her 
man. 

And  the  guitar  being  brought,  even  as  la  marchesa 


I4&  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

waits  in  the  princess's  chamber,  she  mutters :  "  It  is 
he  who  deserted  me  at  the  babbling  of  a  child.  The 
child  I  have  in  my  grip — now  for  the  other.  Diavolo, 
if  I  play  upon  their  passions  I'll  have  both  him  and 
my  mistress,  who  tramples  on  my  pride." 

But  the  two  upon  whom  Bianca  places  her  ban 
think  not  of  her.  Their  supper  being  finished,  the 
princess  has  seized  her  guitar  and  laughed:  "  If  you 
have  voice  equal  to  your  doublet  you  will  be  the  jewel 
of  my  entertainment,  my  troubadour.  It  is  best  you 
come  not  to  rehearsal.  Every  appearance  that  makes 
you  prominent  is  a  danger  to  you.  To-night  together 
we  will  rehearse  your  Tuscan  love  songs.  Sing  as  if 
you  loved  me."  Her  cheeks  grow  red  as  poppies.  She 
droops  her  eyes,  but  gives  him  a  kiss  tender  as  tears, 
yet  warm  as  fire,  then  cries:  "  No,  no,  have  done!  " 
For  the  champagne  surging  in  his  veins  has  given  an 
unexpected  ardor  to  the  troubadour's  salute. 

"  Here  are  the  ditties.  Give  your  voice  to  them  for 
a  little  while!  "  she  cries. 

And  she  is  such  an  enchanting  witch  that,  though 
he  doubts  her,  almost  fears  her,  Sydney,  recalling  the 
art  of  his  boyhood  and  with  the  voice  of  his  youth 
given  back  to  him  by  the  practice  in  Pasquale's  music 
room,  sings  the  soft  amorous  couplets  to  her  accom- 
paniment as  if  she  were  the  queen  of  love  itself. 

"  Dio,  you  have  a  voice  that  makes  me  weep,"  she 
falters,  "  so  strong  and  with  such  a  lovely  ut  de  poitrine, 
I  must  kiss  you  for  it." 

She  has  dropped  her  guitar.  She  is  in  his  arms, 
giving  him  exquisite  coquetry,  alluring  bashfulness, 
and  a  tender  witchery  that  would  fire  an  anchorite's 
heart.  "  Per  Bacco,  you  mean  to  commit  high  treason 
now,"  she  murmurs. 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  I4T 

Another  moment  and  Sydney  Villiers  will  forget  the 
face  he  truly  loves  in  a  counterfeit  passion  for  this  royal 
Circe,  when  suddenly,  with  a  shriek  of  rage,  the 
princess  starts  from  the  troubadour's  knee,  where  she 
had  been  lightly  sitting,  flees  into  the  next  room,  and 
he  can  hear  her  cry:  "  Bianca!  Maldetto!  Again! 
This  will  teach  you  not  to  intrude!  "  and  to  the  Eng- 
lishman's ears  comes  the  sound  of  vigorous  slaps. 

He  glances  in  and  sees  Bianca's  stately  shoulders 
growing  red  under  the  princess's  vindictive  and  agile 
hands. 

"  Cospetto,  would  you  dare  high  treason,  hussy!" 
cries  the  little  despot:  for  once  la  marchesa  has  raised 
her  statuesque  arm  as  if  to  smite  her  tyrant  in  return. 

"  My  mistress,"  sobs  the  maid  of  honor,  with  flam- 
ing cheeks,  "  this,  in  the  presence  of  a  gentleman,  when 
I  came  to  tell  you  your  father  has  been  stricken  with  a 
fit." 

"  Sapristi!    He  has  a  fit  after  every  full  meal." 

"  But  the  leeches  say  this  is  serious.  Your  High- 
ness is  being  inquired  for.  You 

"  Santos,  then  I  must  go,"  mutters  the  princess. 
"  Bianca,  you  should  have  notified  me  of  your  com- 
ing," she  says  somewhat  deprecatingly.  "  The  purse 
of  gold  I  gave  you  for  the  ballet  master,  Pasquale,  you 
can  keep.  Precede  me!" 

As  her  lady's  steps  die  away  she  bursts  out  crying 
as  if  her  heart  would  break,  places  two  kisses  on  Vil- 
liers's  lips,  and  murmurs:  "  God  keep  you,  dear  one, 
while  I  am  torn  from  you." 

"  You  fear  your  father's  illness  may  prevent  our 
plan  to  surprise  the  French,"  whispers  the  captain, 
concern  flying  into  his  face. 

"  No,  I  think  not.    My  father  has  3  fit  after  every 


142  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

gourmandizing.  It  is  probably  not  at  all  serious, 
though,  of  course,  I  am  expected  to  be  near.  Adieu, 
my  loved  one." 

With  another  teary  salute  she  glides  from  him 
through  the  secret  passageway,  whose  door  closes 
noiselessly,  and  leaves  Villiers,  looking  at  the  blank 
wall,  muttering  dazedly:  "  It  must  be  God's  mercy 
that  keeps  me  from  the  arms  of  others  till  I  gain  her, 
of  whom  I  am  not  worthy." 


THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 


BOOK  III, 


THE   SINGING  GIRL   FROM    CREMONA. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"  AN  IDEA  WORTHY  OF  MACHIAVELLI." 

The  next  morning  with  heavy  head  Villiers  awakes, 
and  in  his  duties  as  Prince  Eugene's  emissary  tries  to 
avoid  reproaching  conscience.  He  rises  late,  and  takes 
his  way  to  breakfast  with  some  of  the  under  officials  of 
the  palace,  to  whose  good  offices  he  has  been  assigned 
by  II  Conte  Rosario. 

Chancing  to  pass  the  doors  of  the  court  theater,  he 
hears  the  thumbing  of  a  couple  of  violins,  and  steps 
onto  the  stage  in  search  of  information  as  to  the  duke's 
health,  for  his  highness's  death  or  serious  indisposition 
would  put  an  end  to  the  fete  and  consequently  destroy 
the  chance  of  French  surprise. 

Here  he  notes  that  the  princess's  ladies  are  under  the 
direction  of  their  dancing  mistress  Tessa  practicing 
their  steps  for  the  ballet  of  Venus  and  the  Troubadour. 

He  sits  down  idly  and  watches  the  ladies  Mirabelle 
and  Guilia  displaying  their  graces  in  the  sensuous  sara- 
bande,  though  these  do  not  seem  to  please  the  mistress 
of  the  ballet  very  greatly.  Then  Tessa  shrieks: 
"  Silenzio!  Silenzio!  "  for  the  maids  of  honor,  the  prin- 


144  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

cess  not  being  present,  are  chatting  and  laughing  like 
so  many  magpies,  and  little  Gianetta  di  Persiani  is 
romping  with  two  young  pages  who  are  to  dance  in  the 
minuet. 

But  during  this  Villiers  gets  the  information  he  is  in 
search  of.  Pretty  Metia,  seeing  him,  trips  to  him  and 
whispers:  "  Good  morning,  Sieur  Troubadour.  You 
will  not  be  able  to  rehearse  to-day.  Our  mistress  is 
indisposed  and  will  not  be  upon  the  stage  this  morn- 
ing." 

"The  princessa  indisposed?" 

"  Yes,  she  has  been  with  her  father  most  of  the  night 
and  now  is  drowsy." 

"  And  her  father  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  duke  is  getting  well,  as  usual.  This  evening 
he  will  be  ready  for  another  feast  and  likewise  for 
another  indisposition,"  whispers  the  girl,  archly ;  then 
laughs:  "Have  you  not  had  breakfast  this  morning? 
Am  I  again  to  serve  the  shepherd  boy  ?  " 

And  this  putting  Villiers  in  mind  of  his  breakfast, 
and  also  relieving  him  of  any  fear  of  hindrance  to  his 
military  coup,  he  strolls  away  to  meet  two  or  three  un- 
der-chamberlains,  a  master-of-the-pages,  and  one  or 
two  other  gentlemen  of  the  palace.  Chatting  with  them 
over  breakfast,  he  discovers  to  his  concern  that  a  re- 
inforcement of  six  hundred  infantry  has  just  come 
into  town,  having  been  forwarded  from  the  French  gar- 
rison at  Modena.  The  disposition  of  these  troops,  and 
how  they  will  affect  the  plan  he  has  formulated  and  for- 
warded to  Prince  Eugene,  must  be  discovered. 

This  is  not  a  difficult  matter,  though  it  gives  him 
several  long  walks  which  take  him  well  into  the  after- 
noon. 

The   arriving   troops   are    quartered    on   an   open 


THE  FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  145 

piazza,  or  square,  just  outside  the  citadel.  This  only 
adds  their  strength  to  the  garrison ;  they  can  be 
brought  to  reinforce  the  guard  at  the  Concordia  gate 
not  much  more  rapidly  than  if  they  were  cooped  up 
within  the  citadel  itself. 

This  off  his  mind,  Villiers  again  turns  his  steps  in  the 
afternoon  toward  the  Contrada  Pico,  for  the  transient 
and  illusive  passion  for  the  princess  has  passed  from 
him  even  with  the  fumes  of  the  wine  that  had  intensi- 
fied it. 

"  How  the  devil  could  I  have  so  forgotten  myself 
even  on  account  of  Eugene's  coup?  "  he  communes 
with  himself.  "  Hang  it,  she  tempted  me.  If  it  were 
not  my  military  duty,  I  would  never  see  naughty  little 
Maria  again." 

A  few  other  similar  suggestions  with  which  men  are 
wont  to  palliate  their  vagaries  in  love  are  in  his  mind  as 
he  mounts  the  steps  that  lead  to  Pasquale's  house,  raps 
on  the  door,  and  enters  to  find  himself  much  more 
ashamed  than  he  had  been  before. 

For  at  his  rap,  not  waiting  for  the  slattern  girl  to 
answer  it,  come  light  footsteps.  The  door  is  thrown 
open  and  his  ward,  her  eyes  bright  with  happiness, 
whispers  to  her  guardian :  "  I  knew  your  step,  so  I 
saved  Brigita  the  trouble."  Then  she  makes  Villiers 
very  happy  by,  after  a  low  courtesy,  showing  him  into 
the  music-room  and  announcing :  "  Maestro  Pasquale 
is  busily  engaged  on  a  new  march  her  highness,  la 
princessa,  has  ordered  for  the  entry  of  herself  and  the 
troubadour  in  her  new  ballet.  He  says  I  can  teach  you 
as  well  as  he  the  simple  airs  you  wish  to  learn.  At  all 
events,  this  morning  we  are  to  have  an  hour  or  two  of 
practice.  Giacomo  has  given  me  the  notes  of  the  songs. 
They  are  to  be  sung  to  guitar  accompaniment,  I  be- 


146  THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

lieve.  I  know  the  instrument.  Or  would  you  first  like 
to  go  up  to  the  rooms  you  have  hired?  They  are  pre- 
pared for  you." 

Then  not  waiting  for  his  words,  she  whispers:  "  I 
knew  you  engaged  them  so  as  to  have  eye  on  me,  my 
guardian,"  adding  with  pretty  pout,  "  but  you  came  not 
home  last  night.  Pasquale  says  you  have  apartments 
in  the  palace,  and  from  these  Tuscan  love  songs  1 
judge  you  are  to  be  the  troubadour  in  the  grand  ballet. 
Is  it  so?" 

"  Yes,"  answers  Villiers,  who  deems  it  best  to  tell  this 
girl  at  least  a  portion  of  the  truth. 

Here  she  shocks  him  by  whispering:  "  I  have  some 
awful  news  for  you,"  but  suddenly  pauses  and  says : 
"  That  is  Tessa's  foot  on  the  stairs.  The  maestro  also 
will  be  listening  now  he  knows  you  are  here.  So,  first 
a  song  to  show  them  I  am  doing  my  duty  by  my  pupil." 

With  this  she  sits  down  and  thumbs  the  guitar  in 
pretty  pose,  though  her  garments  are  but  of  the  plainest 
and  cheapest  kind. 

Still  Villiers  knows  it  is  a  butterfly  within  a  moth's 
cocoon,  and  looking  at  her  pure,  fresh  face,  his  heart 
smites  him  again  as  he  sings  one  of  the  love  songs  he 
had  voiced  the  night  before  to  other  accompaniment 
and  to  other  ears. 

But  the  true  passion  is  better  than  the  false  passion ; 
and  without  the  stimulus  of  champagne  the  troubadour 
sings  more  sweetly  and  more  ardently  to  the  dear  face 
of  Lucia  Vesey  than  he  did  to  the  more  meretricious 
beauties  of  the  Princess  of  Mirandola. 

"Admirable!  "  cries  his  pretty  instructress,  clapping 
her  hands.  "  How  passionate  and  fiery  you  are.  Oh, 
you  sing  better  than  a  stage  tenor,  fofr  you  mean  your 
words." 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  147 

Then  she  suddenly  mutters:  "  No,  no;  gran  Dio, 
of  course  I  dreamt  not  that,"  and  such  blushes  fly  over 
her  exquisite  face  that  Villiers,  looking  at  the  chaste 
diffidence  of  a  maid's  first  love,  thinks :  "  Perchance  I 
sang  too  ardently." 

And  perchance  he  did  sing  too  ardently,  for  Bianca 
Gonzaga  in  a  nearby  room,  holding  out  to  the  maestro 
Pasquale  a  purse  of  gold,  the  princess's  guerdon  for  his 
new  Venus  march,  drops  it  onto  the  table  with  a  thud, 
and  thinks:  "  Diavolo!  the  troubadour  has  a  truer  fer- 
vor in  his  voice  than  he  had  last  night  singing  to  my 
devilish  mistress.  A  moment  later  she  gasps :  "  By 
heaven,  he  is  singing  to  Lucia,  the  jade  I  hate.  This 
is  very  curious.  Is  it  possible  the  man  of  which  this 
child  robbed  me  has  given  to  her  his  heart?  " 

Whereupon  she  asks  a  few  deft  questions  and  finds 
that  Villiers  has  apparently  come  to  take  lessons  of 
Giacomo,  and  has  had  his  voice  assisted  to  accuracy  by 
the  true  tones  of  Pasquale's  singing  girl. 

On  hearing  this  she  affrights  the  padrone  by  jeering 
harshly :  "  Santos,  Maestro,  if  Monsieur  Troubadour 
sings  with  thy  diva  a  few  more  love  duets,  you  will  have 
an  elopement  in  your  musical  family,  and  be  minus  an 
apprentice  that  you  value  very  highly." 

"  Maldetto!  what  do  you  mean?  " 

"  Listen  to  the  voice  of  the  Sieur  Montaldo  and  you'll 
know  what  I  mean.  Love  rings  in  every  accent. 
Hark!  Now  he  has  finished;  their  tones  grow  low. 
He  is  whispering  to  her,  perchance  even  more  passion- 
ate words  than  those  in  Tuscan  couplets." 

Having  planted  this  little  dagger  in  Pasquale's  mind, 
Bianca  goes  away,  a  very  curious  idea  in  her  crafty 
mind. 

But  Villiers,  who  doesn't  guess  the  deft  suspicions 


148  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

that  have  been  drawn  from  his  love  songs,  knows  he 
has  something  more  important  this  morning  than  even 
talking  passion  to  Lucia  Vesey.  Into  her  pretty  little 
ear  he  suddenly  interjects:  "  Now  the  awful  news  you 
had  for  me!  " 

His  brows  contract  and  his  eyes  grow  stern  as  the 
girl  whispers  to  him:  "  The  night  after  the  princess's 
grand  fete  and  ballet  I  am  to  be  forced  upon  the  stage 
of  the  public  theater  here  to  sing.  The  role  is  an- 
nounced to  me.  I  am  to  perfect  myself  in  the  part  of 
Euridice  in  Monteverde's  '  Orfeo.'  I'd  glory  in  sing- 
ing it  were  not  my  mother's  dying  words  within  my 
ears ;  besides,  you'd  think  me  then  a  lady  of  the  opera, 
to  whom  gallants  feel  free  to  proffer  love — you'd  not 
respect  me !  " 

The  lovely  eyes  fill  with  tears. 

"  But  you  refused?" 

"  Of  course  I  did,  but  Tessa  has  made  an  awful 
threat.  If  I  sing  not,  she  says  I  shall  dance,  and  her 
brother,  who  is  somewhat  under  his  sister's  influence, 
declares  if  my  lips  do  not  open,  at  least  my  feet  shall 
fly.  They  will  put  me  on  the  stage  before  the  observa- 
tion of  a  crowd  in  the  dress  that  filled  me  with  shame 
when  I  thought  that  you  should  see  me  in  it  yester- 
day." 

"  By  the  blessing  of  God,  that  shall  never  be.  Don't 
fear,"  whispers  Villiers,  "  put  that  from  your  mind. 

By  the  time  you  mention  I  will  have  a  power  that " 

but  he  checks  himself  here.  He  will  not  reveal  to 
Lucia  a  military  secret."  The  risk  of  his  own  life 
seems  small,  to  give  this  girl's  tender  soul  relief  from 
a  fear  he  now  sees  crushes  it ;  but  the  lives  of  a  thou- 
sand brave  men  would  depend  upon  her  care  and  se- 
crecy. Therefore  he  dare  not  speak. 


THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR,  149 

Still  Sydney  feels  he  must  take  this  load  off  Lucia's 
mind.  The  trembling  sadness  in  her  voice  as  she  has 
told  him  makes  him  know  her  heart  is  stricken  with  an 
awful  grief.  Putting  his  mind  upon  this  subject,  sud- 
denly an  idea  comes  to  him,  and  he  says  to  her  briskly ; 
"  Go  on  with  our  lesson.  Have  no  fear.  I  will  save 
you  from  it.  I  were  but  a  poor  agent  of  your  father 
if  I  could  not  keep  you  from  this.  Only  you  must  say 
naught  of  my  interest  in  you  to  Pasquale,  except  that  I 
am  a  man  who  notes  a  pretty  face." 

"  You  think  my  face  pretty,  sir?  "  she  asks;  then  re- 
marks in  archest  innocence,  "  I  am  glad  of  that." 

"  Pish,  you  must  have  been  told  you  are  beautiful 
before." 

"  Oh,  lots  of  times,  but  not  by  you."  Her  tones  give 
him  rapture,  and  he  answers  :  "  You  shall  be  again." 

But  she,  growing  bashful,  for  his  gaze  has  grown  too 
ardent,  cries:  "  Now  the  song  of  the  Venetians  and  the 
Turks,  the  couplets  of  Filicaria,"  and  runs  into  that 
strange  pathetic  melody  of  love  and  war  and  hate,  play- 
ing to  his  voice  a  kind  of  obligato  accompaniment,  its 
staccato  notes  coming  like  little  screams  of  misery  upon 
his  words,  and  sometimes  going  into  strange  wails  as 
he  sings  that  direful  ditty.  As  he  finishes,  she  says : 
"  The  guitar  is  not  grand  enough  for  this.  You  should 
have  an  orchestra  to  punctuate  such  passion  and  de- 
spair." 

But  here  the  lesson  is  broken  in  upon  by  the  maestro 
himself,  who  has  suspicion  in  his  eyes,  but  who  says, 
rubbing  his  hands :  "  I  have  just  received  a  gift  of  one 
hundred  silver  ducats  from  the  princess  for  my  grand 
march  for  her  ballet.  Oh,  sir,  I  am  inspired!  The 
tripping  entry  of  Venus  and  the  troubadour  will  be 
made  glorious  by  my  voluptuous  music."  Then  cast- 


ISO  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

ing  a  curious  glance  at  Lucia,  he  commands :  "  Girl, 
go  and  practice  the  music  of  your  part.  I  think  she's 
found  a  heart  at  last  for  roles  of  passion,"  he  adds  to 
Villiers.  "  You'll  come  and  hear  her  three  nights  from 
now  at  the  public  theater  on  the  Strada  Modena.  Per- 
haps you'd  like  a  box — the  court  will  be  there.  She 
sings  in  Monteverde's  '  Orfeo.'  Last  night  she  ren- 
dered for  me  that  grand  aria  of  the  stolen  Euridice 
with  such  passion  and  such  pathos,  I  said:  '  By  Her- 
cules, my  little  Lucia  has  found  her  heart  at  last! '  " 

At  this  the  maid,  suffused  with  blushes,  runs  bash- 
fully away,  though  there  is  agonized  entreaty  in  the 
wistful  glance  she  darts  at  Villiers. 

With  this  glance  in  his  heart  after  Lucia  has  left  the 
room,  the  troubadour  makes  a  proposition  to  the  sing- 
ing master  which  takes  away  that  avaricious  gentle- 
man's breath.  He  says :  "  I  wish  a  voice  like  that  one 
just  passed  from  us  to  sing  with  me  at  the  great  fair 
in  Siena.  I  wish  to  hire  the  services  of  your  appren- 
tice, Lucia,  from  you,  binding  you  from  this  moment 
not  to  let  her  sing  except  in  my  company.  For  it  I 
pay  one  hundred  golden  ducats." 

"  The  jade  would  make  more  ducats  singing  for  me 
if  I  could  get  her  to  raise  her  voice  in  opera,"  dissents 
Pasquale. 

"  Two  hundred  ducats." 

"  Her  voice  is  magnificent." 

"Three  hundred  ducats — golden  ducats!  Tis  but 
some  six  weeks  to  the  festa  of  Siena." 

"  You  are  rich  for  a  troubadour,"  says  Giacomo, 
laughingly. 

"  I  have  the  pieces  to  pay  on  the  instant,"  and 
Villiers  produces  from  his  belt  the  gold  he  had 
brought  from  the  camp  of  Prince  Eugene,  and  chinks 


THE   FIGHTING    TROUBADOUR.  151 

it  in  front  of  the  music  master,  whose  eyes  light  up  with 
avaricious  fire. 

But  suddenly  he  pauses  with  his  hand  almost  upon 
the  money,  and  says :  "  I  can  not  sell  you  Lucia's  ser- 
vices, sir,  without  consultation  with  Tessa  and  another." 
"  When  can  I  have  your  answer?  " 
"  This  afternoon,  signore." 

"  I  will  wait  here  for  it,"  and  Villiers  goes  up  to 
the  chamber  he  had  hired  and  sits  there  making  pre- 
tense of  looking  over  accounts  and  practicing  the  music 
of  the  troubadour,  likewise  sending  the  slattern  Brigita 
to  a  neighboring  osteria  to  buy  and  bring  in  for  him  a 
flask  of  Chianti,  some  bread,  and  sausages.  Staying 
his  stomach  with  these,  he  finds  the  apartments  not 
worth  the  money  he  pays  for  them ;  but  still  he  thinks 
them  very  cheap;  for  to  him,  as  he  sits,  come  the  sweet 
tones  of  the  nightingale  he  loves,  singing  the  glorious 
music  of  Monteverde's  heroine,  and  once  taking  a  note 
so  high,  and  yet  so  pure,  it  makes  him  start. 
About  this  time  two  shocks  come  to  him. 
Glancing  idly  out  of  his  window  at  the  people  pass- 
ing by  along  the  Contrada  Pico,  which  is  now  growing 
dark,  Villiers  suddenly  starts,  and  carefully  shielding 
himself  from  exterior  observation  by  the  window's 
draping  curtains,  looks  cautiously  forth.  The  street, 
that  had  before  been  uninteresting  to  him,  suddenly  is 
filled  with  the  excitement  of  life  and  death. 

Past  his  window,  on  the  other  side  of  the  street, 
strolls  Umberto,  released  from  the  German  uniform  of 
Prince  Eugene,  and  deserted  from  his  army.  A  recog- 
nition by  this  man  means  certain  death.  Therefore, 
Sydney  keeps  very  close  behind  the  draperies,  though 
he  suddenly  grows  pale,  for  something  in  Umberto's 
deep-set  eyes,  as  he  passes  carelessly  along  the  Con- 


15*  THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

trada  Pico,  indicates  to  the  watching  Englishman  that 
the  Italian  has  an  interest  in  the  house  of  Pasquale,  the 
music-master. 

But  still  the  fellow  wanders  on  and  not  even  looking 
over  his  shoulder,  gradually  passes  out  of  sight. 

After  a  moment  Villiers  springs  up  briskly  and 
strolls  from  the  house.  "  Danger  confronted  firmly  is 
confronted  best,"  he  thinks.  "  I'll  see  if  the  fellow  has 
really  an  eye  on  me!  "  But  in  the  street,  which  is  al- 
ready gloomy  with  the  shadows  of  evening,  he  finds  no 
trace  of  the  Neapolitan. 

"  Still  there's  no  telling  from  what  dark  corner  of 
these  old  streets  a  bravo  like  he  may  pop  out  upon  you," 
cogitates  the  Englishman.  "  Though  I  don't  see  Sig- 
nor  Umberto  now,  I  may  when  I  least  expect  him!  " 

And  this  reminds  him  of  a  resolve  he  had  made  on 
first  hearing  from  Teddy  of  the  Italian's  being  in  Mi- 
randola.  As  a  troubadour  he  has  only  worn  a  dagger ; 
striding  to  an  armorer's,  Villiers  adds  to  his  equipment 
a  cut  and  thrust  basket-hilted  Toledo.  He  would  much 
prefer  a  cavalry  saber,  but  it  answers  to  his  testing, 
and  being  a  strong,  heavy,  and  very  long  blade,  with  an 
edge  keen  as  a  razor's,  it  is  much  better  fitted  for  real 
business  than  the  light,  pretty  rapier  of  a  court  gentle- 
man. 

With  this  secured  about  his  waist  in  a  strong  belt, 
the  English  officer  feels  much  more  at  his  ease,  as  he 
returns  to  the  house  of  the  music  master  and  gets  an 
awful  shock. 

The  slipshod  Brigita  opens  the  door  for  him  and 
tells  him  Pasquale  has  come  in  but  a  little  while  and 
would  see  him  instantly. 

As  he  steps  into  the  hallway  he  hears  the  sound  of 


THE    FIGHTING    TROUBADOUR.  153 

subdued  sobbing  upstairs.    It  is  so  musical  his  heart 
responds  to  it.    He  knows  it  is  Lucia. 

"  If  they  have  laid  hands  upon  her,"  he  snarls  to  him- 
self, "  by  heaven,  I'll  beat  every  note  out  of  Pasquale's 
body,"  and  enters  the  music-room  of  that  maestro  in 
a  very  ugly  frame  of  mind  which  is  scarcely  improved 
by  the  communication  which  he  receives  from  the  mas- 
ter of  the  voice,  though  such  is  the  peculiarity  of  the 
shock  that  for  a  moment  it  knocks  all  fight  out  of  the 
dashing  British  captain. 

"  My  dear  Signer  Montaldo,"  murmurs  the  music 
master,  "  it  is  with  great  sorrow  that  I  am  compelled 
to  refuse  your  generous  offer  for  the  services  of  my 
late  apprentice,  Lucia." 
"  Your  late  apprentice?  " 

"  Yes,  I  already  had  given  the  promise  to  sell  her 
services  to  a  court  lady  in  case  I  ever  disposed  of  them. 
That  court  lady  I  have  consulted  with,  and  she  has 
bought  the  services  of  Lucia,  who  will  be  placed  at  once 
undei  her  protection." 

"  You  mean  La  Marchesa  di  Monteferrato?  "  gasps 
Villiers. 

"  Diavolo,  you  have  guessed  her  name.  She  has  an 
ear  for  music  as  well  as  you.  She  likes  this  girl.  Lucia 
is  to  be  sent  to  her  apartments  in  the  palace  within  the 
hour.  The  fool  is  crying  up  there,  as  if  a  place  at  couri 
might  not  get  her  gallants  by  the  score.  In  the  last 
day  or  two  I  have  noticed  she  liked  the  attention  of 
handsome  gentlemen.  At  court  there  are  higher  born 
gallants  than  you,  Sieur  Troubadour.  But  let  me  play 
for  you  the  march  I  have  composed  for  the  entrance 
of  Venus  and  the  troubadour  in  the  ballet  of  the 
'  Queen  of  Love/  Listen!  "  and  seating  himself  at  the 
harpsichord  he  thumbs  and  pounds  it  in  the  pride  that 


154  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

all  concert  masters  have  for  their  compositions,  which, 
technically  correct,  seldom  have  the  inspiration  of  the 
true  composer. 

However,  Villiers  thinks  it  is  a  good  enough  march 
for  him  to  tramp  after  the  princess's  train  upon  the 
boards  of  the  court  theater.  In  fact,  for  a  few  minutes 
one  note  is  the  same  as  another  to  his  dazed  brain,  as 
he  wonders :  "  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  strange 
phase  in  Lucia's  fate?  " 

After  a  little,  remembering  Bianca's  oath,  he  divines 
it  has  much  more  serious  import  to  his  ward  than  even 
Tessa's  threat  to  display  Lucia  in  the  ballet  at  the  pub- 
lic theater. 

Without  taking  steps  that  would  be  the  death  of  any 
military  outlaw,  Sydney  knows  that  he  can  not  prevent 
Lucia's  being  surrendered  to  la  marchesa's  govern- 
ment and  moved  to  the  palace.  "  There  I  can  also, 
thank  God,"  he  mutters,  "  watch  over  my  inamorata  "; 
adding  grimly:  "  If  that  Jezebel  does  aught  to  injure 
her,  Bianca's  white  shoulders  will  feel  something 
sharper  than  her  mistress's  hand."  Then  he  half  shud- 
ders to  himself :  "  Egad,  Italian  intrigue  is  making  me 
as  familiar  with  the  stiletto  as  any  Visconti  or  Colonna 
who  hires  bravos." 

After  a  moment  he  says,  falteringly:  "  Signor  Pas- 
quale,  can  I  see  Lucia  before  she  is  sent  to  la  mar- 
chesa?" 

The  answer  that  comes  petrifies  him.  "  With  pleas- 
ure, Sieur  Troubadour.  In  fact,  the  Lady  Bianca 
Gonzaga  asked  that  you  kindly  give  your  escort  to  my 
sister  when  she  conducts  my  singing-bird  to  the  palace. 
The  evenings  are  dark,  the  streets  ill-lighted.  It  is 
not  always  safe  for  unattended  females  after  nightfall 
in  Mirandola." 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  155 

"  Indeed,"  stammers  Villiers. 

"  Sapristi  ! "  remarks  the  maestro  of  the  voice,  joc- 
ularly. "  Do  not  tempt  the  hussy,  my  troubadour,  to 
run  away  with  you  to  Siena." 

To  this  Villiers  is  too  astounded  to  answer. 

But  he  would  be  more  astounded  and  more  petrified 
did  he  guess  that  la  marchesa  has  said  to  herself: 
"  Basta,  an  idea  worthy  of  old  Machiavelli!  I  will 
place  my  dastard  between  his  true  love  and  his  false 
love,  betwixt  Lucia  Vesey  and  Maria  of  Mirandola. 
Corpo  di  Bacco!  My  vivacious  princess  will  in  her 
jealous  rage  perchance  destroy  them  both  and — may- 
hap ruin  herself.  Diavolo,  the  jade  is  noble — I'll  have 
a  new  maid  of  honor  for  the  princess." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"  MORBLEU,  YOU  ARE  A  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR!  " 

A  moment  after  Lucia  flits  down  into  the  hall  with  a 
wrap  thrown  over  her  shoulders,  ready  to  be  taken  to 
the  palace.  As  she  awaits  the  coming  Tessa,  Villiers 
contrives  a  few  words  with  her,  and  these  are  mostly 
words  of  warning.  Though  he  doesn't  guess  the  aw- 
ful subtlety  of  la  marchesa's  plan,  he  knows  that  Bi- 
anca  Gonzaga  means  only  evil  to  the  child  she  had 
cursed  that  morning  by  the  lake. 

So,  as  Lucia  stands  before  him,  the  traces  of  tears 
upon  her  cheeks,  Villiers,  keeping  his  spirit  in  check, 
says  these  two  things  to  her :  "  As  far  as  it  is  possible, 
do  la  marchesa's  bidding." 

"  That  is  my  order,  and,  of  course,  I  will  obey  my 
guardian,"  whispers  the  girl. 


156  T^HE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

"  In  case  you  think  she  means  any  ill  to  you,  contrive 
to  get  word  to  me.  I  shall  be  near  to  you.  I  shall 
live  at  the  court  again." 

"  Oh,  you  only  came  to  take  lessons  from  Pasquale 
to  get  word  with  me?"  laughs  Lucia,  her  eyes  grow- 
ing bright.  "Why,  it  is  like  a  romance!"  she  cries, 
then  gives  a  fiery  blush  and  hangs  her  head. 

But  Villiers  suddenly  checks  blushes  by  asking  some 
questions  about  St.  Croix,  the  banker.  From  her  he 
learns  only  that  her  mother  had  expected  St.  Croix 
would  receive  for  her  the  sum  of  money  that  would 
make  the  last  hours  of  her  life  easy  and  opulent.  This 
money  had  never  come. 

The  Englishman  is  yet  uncertain  whether  la  mar- 
chesa  knows  anything  of  the  bravo  who  had  destroyed 
Sir  Andrew  Vesey. 

But  this  matter  is  shortly  settled  in  his  mind,  though 
in  a  curious  and  hideous  way.  They  are  hardly  one 
hundred  yards  from  the  house  of  Pasquale,  that  gentle- 
man looking  affably  after  them  from  the  open  door  and 
jeering  in  Italian  humor:  "  Tessa,  don't  let  the  trouba- 
dour run  away  with  our  diva." 

Villiers  has  just  got  Lucia  between  him  and  the  stal- 
wart ballet  mistress,  and  is  enjoying  the  melody  of  the 
girl's  sweet  voice,  as  she  is  asking  if  he  thinks  la  mar- 
chesa  will  permit  her  to  see  the  great  fete  of  the  prin- 
cess, when  .a  ragged  and  dirty  beggar  comes  up  behind 
him  and  implores  alms.  He  will  be  most  happy  if  the 
generous  and  honored  signore  will  give  him  a  lira. 

Not  caring  to  be  interrupted  in  his  pleasant  conver- 
sation, the  Englishman  refuses  to  make  the  Italian  hap- 
py, and  turns  again  to  listen  to  Lucia's  prattle,  when  the 
beggar  coming  up  behind  him  treads  on  his  heels  and 
again  implores,  this  time  more  truculently. 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  157 

To  his  jabbering  Villiers  remarks  curtly :  "  Fellow, 
trouble  me  not  again,  or  my  hand  will  give  you  some- 
thing heavier  than  a  lira." 

"  Diavolo!  The  light  hand  of  a  singing  man,"  jeers 
the  mendicant,  "  would  not  hurt  a  summer  fly." 

But  Villiers  cares  nothing  for  the  fellow's  jibes. 
There  are  plenty  of  beggars  in  the  streets  of  every 
Italian  city,  and  this  one  is  scarce  more  insolent  or 
more  dirty  than  his  fellows.  A  moment  after  he  has  put 
the  matter  entirely  out  of  his  mind,  for,  having  rejoined 
his  charge,  he  hears  Tessa  rating  her. 

"  Sapristi,  minx.  You  like  to  see  a  show,  but  do 
not  like  to  do  your  part  of  it.  You  are  the  most  un- 
grateful baggage.  You  could  have  sung  in  the  opera 
here  and  made  us  rich,  we  who  have  given  you  bread 
and  wine  these  many  days." 

"  La  marchesa  has  bought  my  services  from  you.  I 
saw  your  brother  counting  the  gold.  It  made  me  feel 
as  if  I  were  a  slave,"  half  sobs  Lucia. 

Villiers  is  about  to  add  his  word  to  this,  and  probably 
the  three  would  have  gone  into  a  triangular  and  vigor- 
ous discussion  did  not  at  this  moment  Mr.  Beggar 
again  intrude  himself  upon  the  scene  and  cry :  "  Mal- 
detta,  insulting  a  lady!  "  and  with  his  dirty  hand  pull 
the  Englishman's  cap  from  off  his  head. 

Tessa's  words  not  having  added  to  his  suavity,  Vil- 
liers turns  about  and  astounds  the  beggar  of  Miran- 
dola,  for  he  gives  him  something  no  Italian  mendicant 
had  perchance  felt  before,  a  blow  after  the  manner  of 
Anglo-Saxon  fisticuffs  straight  from  the  shoulder  and 
strong  upon  the  jaw ;  under  it  the  lazzarone  goes  down 
into  the  dirt  of  the  medieval  street  with  a  shriek  for  suc- 
cor: "  To  me,  comrades!  A  beggar  is  being  killed!  " 
With  this  two  or  three  more  of  his  trade  and  class 


I $8  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

come  flying  to  his  aid.  In  a  moment  the  Englishman 
finds  himself  attacked  by  three  stalwart  Italian  lazzar- 
oni.  They  are  waiting  for  him  to  draw  his  rapier, 
then  they  will  knife  him. 

But  not  thinking  the  scum  of  the  Italian  streets 
worthy  of  his  sword,  he  suddenly  lays  about  him  with 
his  fists,  and  before  they  can  lay  hands  on  stilettos  they 
go  down  like  ninepins  under  his  science  of  the  box,  a 
thing  at  that  day  unknown  in  Italy. 

Turning  from  the  astonished  ruffians,  who  lie  piled 
one  on  top  of  the  other  in  the  gutter,  Villiers,  to  his  con- 
cern, discovers  the  attentions  of  these  scoundrels  have 
been  with  an  object. 

At  the  scuffle,  Tessa  has  foolishly  dragged  her  charge 
as  far  away  from  it  as  possible.  Lucia  is  already  some 
hundred  feet  from  her  protector.  In  the  dim  light 
Villiers  sees  Tessa  tossed  roughly  upon  one  side  and 
the  giri  of  his  heart  seized  by  three  or  four  banditti 
and  dragged  quickly  into  a  dark  side  street. 

Running  up,  he  calls  to  Tessa :  "  Fool,  why  did  you 
not  stay  by  me?  'Tis  your  diva  they  want!"  Then 
he  cries  loudly:  "Aid!"  -v 

But  no  gendarmes  are  near,  and  the  few  passers-by 
seem  loath  to  follow  him  into  the  gloomy  recesses  of  a 
very  low  quarter  of  Mirandola. 

But  without  waiting  for  assistance,  Villiers,  guided 
by  the  melodious  yet  shrill  cries  of  Lucia,  follows  after 
his  love  through  some  hundred  yards  of  djfk  alleys, 
the  fetid  odor  of  their  filth  sickening  him  as  he  runs. 
His  quick  feet  would  shortly  overtake  the  ruffians,  im- 
peded by  their  half-fainting  burden,  did  they  not  sud- 
denly hurry  the  girl  into  a  small  side  house. 

In  the  gloom  he  can't  tell  which  house,  and  pauses  to 
look  about  him,  when,  hearing  a  low,  jeering  laugh 


THE  LIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  159 

above  him,  the  Englishman  looks  up  and  sees  to  his  as- 
tonishment the  Neapolitan  Umberto  upon  a  little  iron 
bridge  or  balcony  that  runs  from  the  second  story  of 
one  house  to  that  of  another  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  street,  which  here  is  scarce  fifteen  feet  wide. 

An  oil  lamp  hanging  overhead  throws  a  dim  and 
sickly  light  upon  the  scene.  At  one  end  of  the  balcony 
a  woman  in  the  careless  way  of  the  lower  order  of  Ital- 
ians is  publicly  suckling  a  child.  Perched  on  the  rail- 
ing at  the  other  end  is  a  half-nude  boy  calmly  eating 
macaroni,  two  cats  upon  a  nearby  roof  are  looking  on. 
The  next  instant  Umberto  is  joined  by  three  stout 
ruffians  carrying  the  struggling  Lucia  in  their  arms, 
and  the  woman  and  the  boy  with  frightened  cries  run 
away,  while  all  the  numerous  dwellers  in  the  low  houses 
about  fly  like  rats  from  a  sinking  ship,  apparently  fear- 
ing either  the  bandits  or  the  gendarmes,  or  both. 

Looking  over  the  railing  of  this  bridge,  which  is  not 
sixteen  feet  above  the  alley,  with  his  burly  arms 
stretched  over  it  and  his  chin  resting  between  his  hands, 
the  Italian  bravo  gazes  in  triumph  at  the  English  offi- 
cer. 

"Diavolo!"  he  jeers.  "  Spione,  I  have  you.  Spy 
of  Prince  Eugene,  I'll  have  many  gold  pieces  for  thy 
head  from  De  Vivans,  the  commandant  here.  Twas 
to  lure  you  to  your  capture  we  seized  that  shrieking 
girl.  We  have  watched  the  house  of  music  in  wrhich 
you  made  your  lair  and  now  the  reward  will  be  all  our 
own.  I  could  have  given  you  up  by  word  of  mouth 
to  the  French  commandant,  but  that  wouldn't  be  as 
many  gold  pieces  as  if  we  bring  you  bound  to  him,  cap- 
tured by  our  own  hands;  eh,  Alessandro?  What  say 
you,  Dominico?  Have  I  not  told  you  true,  Sparta? 
See,  he  must  be  a  military  man!  Look,  how  he  holds 


l6o  fHE   FIGHTING   TROUfiADOUR. 

his  sword.  A  cavalry  officer,  eh?  I  know  him  well. 
Capitano  Villiers,  this  will  avenge  me  for  the  stripes 
and  canings  you  brought  upon  my  shoulders  from  the 
drill-masters  of  the  regiment  of  Mansfield.  Now, 
which  way  will  you  follow  us,  eh,  to  get  this  girl? 
And  you  will  have  to  follow  us  to  save  her.  For  with- 
in that  room  I'll  make  the  jade  my  own!  "  He  points 
to  the  next  house  and  gives  a  brutal  gesture :  "  She  is 
a  pretty  wench.  If  you  come  not  to  her  aid,  you  will 
hear  her  cries  and  screams  while  I  do  fondle  her  and 
take  her  to  my  breast.  Ah,  you  are  coming!  Which 
way?  " 

For  at  his  monstrous  threat  Lucia  has  given  out  a 
sighing  moan  that  has  made  her  lover  half  insane. 

"  Two  stairways  lead  to  this  bridge,"  continues  Um- 
berto,  scoffingly ;  "  when  you  come  up  it  is  to  death 
or  capture;  and  if  you  beat  us,  of  which  there  is  little 
chance,  for  we  are  four  stout  men,  we  will  run  our  little 
miss  away  by  the  one  you  don't  come  up.  But  if  you 
will  surrender  yourself  to  us  I  will  spare  the  girl  my 
embraces,"  adds  the  ruffian  affably.  "  Now  have  your 
choice — you  to  give  yourself  up  to  us,  to  be  trussed  like 
a  pullet  and  turned  over  to  De  Vivans  to  be  hung  as 
a  spy,  or  look  on  her  undoing.  Ah,  that  makes  you 
wince!  Cospetto,  he's  going  to  hold  up  his  hands  for 
us  that  we  may  tie  them!  "  Then  suddenly  he  snarls: 
"  Fools,  heed  him  not!  " 

For  Villiers  has  cried :  "  Knaves,  the  girl  you  hold 
is  of  the  train  of  the  princessa  and  maid  unto  La  Mar- 
chesa  di  Monteferrato !  " 

At  this  the  three  other  ruffians  hesitate,  but  Umberto 
jeers:  "  Sapristi!  The  maiden  of  a  princess  in 
coarse  cotton  cloth  that  a  beggar  would  disdain?  Be- 
sides, if  you,  my  singing  fellow,  are  not  a  spy  of  Prince 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  l6l 

Eugene,  why  should  you  fear  being  taken  before  De 
Vivans,  the  French  commandant?  " 

At  this  the  reassured  ruffians  burst  into  a  mocking 
laugh,  for  Lucia's  garments  are  scarce  as  good  as  those 
of  the  beggar  woman  who  has  gone  away. 

"  See  how  he  shivers  as  he  looks  upon  my  handling 
of  this  wench,"  jeers  Umberto,  as  he  draws  the  shrink- 
ing Lucia  nearer  to  him.  "  The  noose  will  hurt  him 
worse  than  did  the  canes  of  the  drill  sergeants  of  the 
regiment  Mansfield  as  they  scored  my  back.  But, 
Corpo'di  Bacco!  it  is  her  eyes  give  him  the  torture." 

For  Umberto's  hint  of  hanging  a  spy  has  put  an 
agony  into  Lucia's  face.  At  first  she  had  begged  Vil- 
liers:  "  Save  me!  Save  me!  "  now  she  pleads:  "Save 
yoitrself! "  For  she  remembers  her  guardian's  words 
and  knows  that  he  is  doomed  if  even  suspected  by  the 
French. 

But  here  into  the  girl's  despairing  eyes  flies  a  fleet- 
ing flash  of  joy ;  for  he  has  answered  her  :  "  With- 
out you,  pure  and  immaculate,  what  is  my  life  to  me,  I 
who  adore  you!  " 

This  tells  Umberto  he  has  the  Englishman  close  as 
if  he  had  gyves  upon  his  wrists.  He  whispers  in 
hoarse  gloating:  "  Quick,  Capitano,  it  is  booty  or 
beauty!  "  He  has  already  slipped  a  ruffian  arm  about 
the  girl's  slight  waist  and  drawn  her  to  him. 

All  this  time  the  little  court  of  the  Italian  street  has 
been  like  a  torture  chamber  to  Villiers,  though  only 
once  he  had  raised  his  voice  to  shout  for  aid  and  that  at 
the  very  first.  Since  then  he  has  not  dared  to  call  as- 
sistance, for  he  sees  in  the  lustful  eyes  of  the  Italian 
that  he  means  his  devilish  words. 

"  Sapristi!  Make  thy  choice  quickly,  for  she  is  an 
engaging  wench  and  I  am  commencing  to  love  her," 


162  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

laughs  Umberto,  chucking  Lucia  under  her  pretty  chin. 
"  God  of  mercy,  no!  " 

"  Quick,  signore,  for  I  am  going  to  kiss  her,"  whis- 
pers the  Neapolitan.  His  thick  lips  are  nearing  the 
pale,  shrinking  mouth  that  gives  one  gasping  moan. 

"Spare  her!  Put  her  beside  me  safe,  and  I  am 
your  captive,"  whispers  Villiers  in  despairing  voice. 

But  here  the  girl,  with  one  white  hand  keeping  her 
lips  from  being  sullied  by  trie  ruffian's  kiss,  sobs  out: 
"  Not  your  life ;  MINE  !  I  shall  not  live,  but  I  shall  die 
happy,  for  I  know  you  love  me." 

Into  the  Englishman's  eyes  comes  for  one  moment 
rapture,  then  he  replies  hoarsely :     "  Umberto,  when 
she  passes  out  of  that  street  safe,  I  am  your  prisoner." 
"  Pisha,  how  shall  I  believe  thee?" 
"  I  give  you  the  word  of  an  English  officer." 
"  Diavolo!    We  want  better  proof.    Throw  up  to  me 
thy  sword  and  poniard." 

With  a  long  drawn  breath  that  means  hope  has  fled, 
for  he  knows  he  is  no  better  than  a  dead  man,  Villiers  is 
unbuckling  the  long  cut-and-thrust  rapier  from  his 
belt,  the  one  he  bought  to  aid  him  in  such  extremity, 
which  by  the  Italian's  artifice  has  been  made  useless  as 
a  bit  of  straw,  when  suddenly  Tessa  stands  beside  him 
and  whispers:  "I  have  brought  you  aid,"  and  the 
bright  young  voice  of  Ambrose  de  Terrail  cries  :  "  Mon 
Dieu,  is  it  not  the  diva  whose  voice  has  charmed  me!  " 
for  the  girl  has  given  a  scream  at  Tessa's  words. 

"  I  am  with  you,  troubadour!  "  And  the  young  lieu- 
tenant comes  on  as  gallantly  as  even  his  great  ancestor, 
for  he  is  of  the  family  that  gave  to  the  world  the  Cheva- 
lier Bayard,  the  truest  of  all  the  many  knights  that 
made  the  glory  of  old  chivalry.  "What  shall  I  do?" 
he  asks. 

r* 


THE  FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  163 

Villiers,  throwing  his  scabbard  away,  cries :  "  Up 
one  stairway,  you;  up  one  stairway,  I!  They  cannot 
escape  us.  You  take  the  right  house,  I  the  left! 
Now,  ruffians,  run  away  if  you  can!  " 

As  the  two  fly  into  the  houses  on  either  side  of  the 
street,  Umberto  gives  a  scream  of  rage,  but  he  is  a  ruf- 
fian of  ready  resources.  The  right  window  opening 
on  to  the  bridge  has  a  strong  shutter  of  iron  grillage. 
This  he  shuts  and  locks,  the  key  turning  hard  in  the 
rusty  wards.  This  cuts  off  the  attack  of  De  Terrail. 
Leaving  the  girl  half  swooning  on  the  balcony,  he 
heads  the  three  other  ruffians;  together  they  rush  down 
the  left  stairs  to  overwhelm  the  single  man  who  comes 
against  them. 

But  Villiers,  though  he  now  has  the  heart  of  a  devil 
in  him,  still  remembers  that  he  has  also  a  head  upon  his 
shoulders  and  fights  with  this  as  well  as  with  his  hands. 
In  the  darkness,  Umberto  and  his  ruffians  think  the 
Englishman  is  running  up  the  stairs,  and  bolt  down  to 
overwhelm  him. 

But  he  has  stopped  at  one  side  of  the  steps,  and  as 
Sparta,  the  first  ruffian,  passes  the  Englishman,  he 
gives  a  scream  and  sinks  down  in  his  blood.  "  Look 
out  for  him,  behind!  "  shrieks  the  dying  wretch. 

But  the  sword  of  the  troubadour  stings  once  more. 
Allesandro  gives  up  his  life  to  a  thrust  and  withdrawal 
that  disembowel  him. 

Umberto  and  the  other  ruffian  scream  and  retreat 
up  to  the  bridge,  but  here  their  escape  is  cut  off.  De 
Terrail  is  thundering  at  the  iron  grating  and  trying  to 
get  upon  the  bridge  from  the  other  house.  As  Umberto 
turns  and  crosses  swords  with  Villiers,  who  has  sprung 
up  after  him,  his  follower,  Dominico,  seizes  the  half 
swooning  girl  to  make  her  a  sacrifice  to  his  rage.  His 


1 64  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

knife  is  already  raised  above  her  when  De  Terrail,  who 
is  a  quick  French  boy,  finding  he  can  not  reach  the 
scoundrel  with  the  sword,  pulls  out  a  pistol,  and  at  six 
feet  distance  sends  the  bandit  to  Hades  by  a  bullet 
through  the  heart. 

Then  it  is  only  man  to  man ;  Villiers  and  Umberto. 
The  lieutenant  is  now  running  down  stairs  to  cross 
the  street  and  come  up  the  other  way  to  help  the  trou- 
badour, but  Villiers  feels  he  is  good  for  half  a  dozen 
bandits,  now  he  knows  his  love  is  safe.  For  Umberto 
can  never  reach  Lucia  and  live  while  Villiers's  sword 
is  crossed  against  his.  Still  the  Neapolitan  tries  malig- 
nantly to  draw  his  poniard  and  slay  the  shrinking  girl 
with  his  left  hand,  while  he  guards  himself  with  the 
rapier  in  his  right. 

But  this  is  fatal  to  him.  Even  as  the  villain  draws 
the  dagger,  the  Englishman's  long,  low  thrust  en  tierce 
has  reached  him.  Full  against  his  breastbone  comes  the 
basket  handle,  and  with  a  moan  Umberto  sinks  upon 
the  ironwork  of  the  little  bridge,  which  now  is  dripping 
red. 

As  this  happens,  De  Terrail  stands  beside  Sydney, 
sword  in  hand.  Looking  at  his  French  uniform,  which 
gleams  beneath  the  little  flickering  oil  lamp,  Umberto, 
the  blood  running  out  of  his  mouth,  points  at  Villiers 
and  tfies  to  kill  him  by  his  dying  words:  "  Spionc ! 
spione! "  he  gasps.  "  Frenchman,  spione! " 

"  By  heaven,  a  spy  as  well !  "  cries  De  Terrail, 
thinking  the  wretch  is  confessing  his  own  treachery; 
and  his  quick  sword  cuts  the  throat  of  the  bandit  who, 
had  he  but  spoken  one  word  more,  would  have  slain 
Villiers  with  his  last  breath.  * 

But  unguessing  this  De  Terrail  says,  admiration  in 
his  toneg;  "  J  noted  your  work  upon  the  stairs,  and 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  165 

now  this  other  fellow.    Morbleu,  your  sword  is  strong 
as  your  voice:  you  are  a  fighting  troubadour." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  NEW  MAID  OF  HONOR. 

Then  the  two  men  clasp  hands,  and,  Tessa  calling 
from  the  street,  De  Terrail  runs  hastily  down  to  her. 
But  Villiers  scarce  heeds  this.  He  has  got  Lucia  in  his 
arms  and  she  is  whispering  to  his  ear  words  that  make 
him  happier  than  one  of  the  princes  of  the  earth,  for 
she  is  saying:  "  Dear  one,  thou  wouldst  have  given 
thy  life  to  save  me  from  these  men.  You  would  have 
surrendered  yourself  to  a  spy's  death  for  me.  Ah,  that 
is  true  love!  " 

But  his  lips  stop  her  lips.  He  looks  warningly  to- 
ward the  retreating  figure  of  the  French  lieutenant, 
and  she,  knowing  his  danger  is  still  upon  him,  whis- 
pers: "  Don't  fear  me  now.  I  am  dumb  for  very  love 
of  you.  Cielo,  'twas  like  a  romance  of  old,  and  what 
will  my  father  say  to  your  suit?  "  For  Villiers's  eyes 
as  well  as  his  lips  tell  her  he  means  honest  marriage, 
not  light  badinage  and  love  play. 

Then,  her  shame  and  agony  having  been  greater 
than  she  can  bear,  the  girl  gives  a  little  sigh,  and  loses 
consciousness  within  the  arms  that  within  one  day 
she  has  grown  to  love  and  trust. 

A  hurried  thought  and  Villiers  hastily  searches  the 
dead  Umberto,  not  that  he  fears  there  is  aught  com- 
promising to  him  on  the  ruffian's  corpse,  but  still  there 
may  be  things  within  his  pockets  that  may  aid  Villiers 
in  his  military  adventure. 


l66  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

A  quick  examination  gives  to  his  hand  a  little 
packet  containing  a  letter,  one  or  two  papers,  and  a 
purse  of  golden  louis,  new  coins  that  flash  under  the 
dim  rays  of  the  little  lamp.  "  These  to  say  masses  for 
the  dead  villain's  soul,"  thinks  the  English  captain. 
"  The  papers  I  must  examine  at  my  leisure." 

Then  bearing  the  maiden  in  his  arms,  he  walks  down 
the  bloody  stairway  and  steps  over  the  corpses  of  two 
men,  who  if  they  could  but  cry  out  five  words  would 
give  him  death,  for  the  French  lieutenant  is  just  out- 
side in  the  street. 

Coming  to  De  Terrail  and  Tessa,  Villiers  still  carry- 
ing his  precious  burden,  they  walk  along  the  dark 
alleys  and  stumble  over  the  heaps  of  filth  common  to 
the  low  quarter  of  a  medieval  Italian  tawn,  their  only 
greeting  being  from  a  few  howling  curs,  who  are  trying 
to  find  subsistence  in  the  garbage. 

"  She  is  heavy;  let  me  assist  you,"  says  Ambrose, 
as  Villiers  staggers  through  a  pile  of  ashes,  broken 
glass,  and  bones. 

"  No,  no;  her  weight  is  nothing  to  me,"  mutters  the 
Englishman,  who  would  not  give  up  Lucia  to  an 
angel's  carrying,  though  in  truth  he  seems  weak,  but 
it  is  the  agitation  of  a  mighty  joy.  Her  soft,  rounded 
arms  are  clinging  to  him.  He  feels  the  lovely  contours 
of  her  fair  body,  the  exquisite  graces  of  her  young 
limbs;  and  now,  God  be  praised,  sentiency  is  returning 
to  her.  She  is  whispering  in  his  ear:  "  Dear  one,  I  am 
strong  enough.  Let  me  walk  now." 

But  he  answers  to  her:  "  No,  no;  not  until  we 
gain  the  broad  streets." 

"Yes,  yes!  You  are  too  weak!"  She  makes  a 
little  bashful  struggle;  for,  feeling  herself  in  his  arms,  a 
rapture  has  come  to  her  that  gives  her  a  strange  dim"- 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  167 

dence,  then  suddenly  murmurs :  "  Dio!  you  are  like  a 
Hercules.  How  tight  you  hold  me!"  and  in  a  very 
dark  corner  of  the  alley  gives  a  little  half  affrighted 
"  O — O — oh,"  for  he  has  placed  upon  her  lips  such  a 
kiss  as  they  had  ne'er  received  before.  But  they  are 
now  coming  to  the  broader  streets;  under  the  flickering 
lamps  Villiers  is  more  discreet. 

Here  the  girl's  hard  training  is  of  use  to  her,  for 
had  she  been  brought  up  in  delicate  luxury  she  might 
have  been  hysterical.  But  her  danger  being  over,  she 
grows  strong  and  self-reliant,  and  to  Villiers's  whis- 
pered "  Remember!  "  as  he  places  her  upon  the 
pavement  of  the  Contrada  Pico,  she  returns :  "  With 
my  life !  For  if  you  die,  I  die  also !  " 

Therefore  it  is  in  good  heart  that  he  links  his  arm 
into  that  of  De  Terrail,  and  the  two  young  men  walk 
behind  Tessa  and  her  pretty  charge,  escorting  them 
to  the  palace  of  Mirandola.  The  streets  are  broader 
now,  the  lights  more  numerous;  the  passing  crowd  is 
greater.  There  are  many  French  soldiers  walking 
the  pavements,  and  the  lieutenant  laughs  as  Villiers 
keeps  his  hand  upon  his  sword  hilt.  "  Dost  think  she 
will  be  stolen  again  in  this  great  crowd?  "  Then  some 
faint  suggestion  of  the  situation  coming  to  Ambrose, 
he  adds  roguishly :  "  When  I  heard  your  voice  sing- 
ing with  hers  I  thought  it  was  too  ardent  to  be  that 
of  any  of  the  hackneyed  stage  tenors." 

"  Oh,  yes,  we  troubadours  love  quickly,"  whispers 
Villiers. 

"And  shortly,"  laughs  Ambrose;  then  he  whispers 
to  him  words  that  make  the  Englishman  start.  "  It 
is  bruited  about  the  palace  that  the  princess  has  great 
interest  in  thee.  Diable,  you  should  have  seen  De 
Vivans  twist  his  moustachios  as  the  thing  was  told  to 


1 68  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

him  as  he  dined  at  mess  to-day.  You  know  until  some 
eight  days  since  he  was  first  favorite  in  the  royal  eyes." 

"Since  then?"  queries  Villiers,  a  strange  idea  fly- 
ing through  his  mind  as  he  remembers  that  eight  days 
is  just  the  time  the  princess  must  have  sent  her  mes- 
senger to  Prince  Eugene. 

"  Since  then  they  have  been  at  armed  neutrality, 
though  De  Vivans  has  not  lost  his  passion  for  the 
beautiful  Maria,  and  would  fly  to  her  should  she  but 
give  her  royal  hand  a  single  beckoning.  Of  course, 
outwardly  they  are  the  same  as  they  were  before,  he 
the  commandant  of  the  garrison  and  representative  of 
our  king,  she  an  ally,  yet  her  town  held  as  if  it  were  a 
conquest.  But  we  are  at  the  gates  of  the  palace." 

For  now  the  lights  of  the  great  building  flare  up 
before  them,  and  torch  boys  are  standing  at  the  en- 
trance, and  the  grandees  of  Mirandola  are  coming  in 
sedan  chairs  and  old  state  coaches,  attended  by  their 
footmen  and  their  valets,  to  pay  their  respects  to 
royalty.  To  Villiers's  inquiring  glance  the  lieutenant 
whispers:  "It  is  the  evening  the  princess  generally 
receives.  Her  hospitality  is  regal,  a  supper  fit  for  the 
gods,  wine  fit  for  Frenchmen,  the  music  of  her  royal 
orchestra,  and  as  many  pretty  girls  and  gay  court 
ladies  as  ever  made  a  gallant  wish  to  dance  the 
minuet." 

"  Or  lead  them  into  secluded  corners.  But  as  I  said 
before,  I  am  a  looker-on,  a  troubadour,"  returns  the 
Englishman,  who  is  now  gazing  upon  Lucia  and  won- 
dering what  fate  has  for  the  girl  of  his  heart  within 
this  palace. 

At  the  entrance  it  is  apparent  Tessa  and  her  charge 
are  expected.  A  page  in  waiting  says:  "  Madame  la 
Marchesa  di  Monteferrato  is  anxious  for  you.  She  has 


THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  l6p 

been  waiting  for  you  an  hour.  Quick,  bring  the  young 
lady  this  way,"  and  bows  humbly  before  Lucia,  though 
his  eyes  stare  at  the  maid's  poor  frock  and  cloak. 

At  this  Villiers  looks  astonished,  as  does  the  lieu- 
tenant, for  such  greeting  is  not  often  accorded  to  a 
premier  ballerina  and  a  girl  who  is  destined  to  make  an 
opera  lady. 

But  with  one  hand  clasp — that  is  all  he  can  give  her 
— Villiers  lets  Lucia  go.  Tessa,  conducted  by  the 
page,  leads  the  half-frightened  girl  away. 

Then  in  the  inner  courtyard  the  two  gentlemen 
bid  each  other  a  kindly  adieu.  "  Remember  me  for- 
ever as  your  friend,  well-wisher,  and  good  comrade," 
whispers  the  Englishman,  adding  hastily:  "  Perhaps 
some  day  I  may  be  able  to  be  of  as  much  service  to 
you  as  you  were  to  me,"  but  stops  himself  before  his 
speech  grows  more  indiscreet. 

"  Egad,"  answers  Ambrose,  "  we  should  be  good 
comrades.  We  have  drunk  wine  together;  we  have 
fought  side  by  side.  I  shall  brush  some  of  the  dirt 
from  my  uniform  and  make  myself  more  presentable." 
Then  raising  his  voice,  he  calls:-"  Here,  lackey,  show 
me  to  a  gentleman's  retiring  room!  "  and  goes  away, 
while  Villiers,  who  knows  the  path  to  his  own  apart- 
ments, speeds  hither. 

His  rooms  have  been  put  in  order,  otherwise  they 
are  the  same  as  when  he  left  them  this  morning.  He 
lights  a  lamp  and  hurriedly  looks  over  the  packet  taken 
from  the  dead  Umberto.  The  paper  contains  merely 
a  statement  of  account,  the  brigand  having  received 
ten  louis  for  some  service,  and  is  to  receive  twenty 
more  on  proof  of  its  completion.  In  perusal  of  this 
Villiers  shudders,  half  guessing  what  the  service  is. 

Seven  louis  are  in  the  bravo's  purse;  one  he  had 


17°  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

thrown  to  O'Bourke  that  morning  in  the  camp.  Two 
others  the  ruffian  must  have  expended.  Seven  are  left. 
But  the  inspection  of  the  letter  makes  the  reader  knit 
his  brows  and  mutter:  "  If  she  had  no  hand  in  it,  at 
least  she  knew  Sir  Andrew  Vesey  was  to  be  done  to 
death.  For  it  simply  reads: 

"  CREMONA,  Anno  Domini  1701, 

"  the  4th  day  of  December. 
"Madame  la  Marchcsa  di  Monteferrato: 

"  This  letter  will  introduce  to  your  august  notice  one 
who  has  been  of  service  to  me.  You  know  his  name. 
If  his  tale  proves  he  has  done  my  bidding,  pay  him 
twenty  golden  louis,  for  this  matter  is  as  much  to  your 
interest  as  it  is  to  that  of 

"  Your  most  obedient  and  humble  servant, 

"  GASPARIN  ST.  CROIX." 

"  By  heavens,"  reflects  Villiers  grimly,  "  Bianca 
was  interested  in  this  crime.  The  bravo  had  been 
hired  by  the  banker  to  put  out  of  the  way  a 
creditor  who  would  have  demanded  five  thousand 
crowns  from  him,  and  furthermore  have  proved  him  to 
be  as  despicable  a  commercial  sinner  as  lived  upon  this 
earth,  and  this  woman  for  hatred  of  the  daughter  aided 
him.  No  mercy  for  her!  This  letter  must  have  been 
smuggled  into  the  camp  of  Prince  Eugene  after  Um- 
berto  did  the  murder  at  Chiari.  The  ruffian  came  to 
this  town  to  collect  from  la  marchesa  the  balance  of  the 
blood  money  of  poor  Sir  Andrew  Vesey.  Catching 
sight  of  me,  he  thought  to  make  another  winning  with 
my  head,  and,  giving  his  whole  attention  to  my  cap- 
ture, delayed  delivering  the  missive." 

Then  horror  entering  his  heart  he  shudders:  "  That 
diablesse  gave  the  father  death  so  that  his  daughter 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  171 

should  be  unprotected.  What  devilish  wrong  does  she 
mean  to  Lucia  now!  " 

Even  as  he  thinks  this,  astonishment  greater  than 
has  come  to  him  before  this  day  strikes  the  Eng- 
lish captain.  It  is  from  the  mouth  of  a  page  who  raps 
upon  his  door.  At  the  summons,  Villiers,  putting  the 
paper  hurriedly  into  his  bosom,  stepping  to  the  door, 
opens  it  and  looks  out. 

"  The  Princess  of  Mirandola's  compliments  and 
commands  to  the  Sieur  Montaldo,"  whispers  the  young 
court  messenger  with  bow  of  ceremony.  "  She  bids 
him  to  her  levee,  and  would  introduce  him  to  her  new 
maid  of  honor." 

"  Her  new  maid  of  honor?  "  A  question  is  in  Syd- 
ney's accents. 

"  Yes,  the  Lady  Lucia  Vesey." 

"  The  Lady  Lucia  Vesey?  " 

"  Yes,  sieur,  the  Lady  Lucia  has  been  placed  under 
the  princess's  protection  by  La  Marchesa  di  Monte- 
ferrato." 

"  Of  course,  I  obey  the  princess's  commands  most 
dutifully,"  stammers  the  captain,  closes  his  door,  and 
sinking  into  a  chair,  mutters:  "  By  Italian  craftiness, 
this  is  beyond  my  Saxon  brain!  If  Bianca  had  hum- 
bled Lucia,  crushed  her  to  the  dust,  treated  her  as  a 
scullion  wench,  I  would  have  understood  it,  but  to 
exalt  her,  to  place  her  in  her  true  rank !  Diavolo,  it 
is  more  dangerous  to  my  love  than  if  she  were  in  the 
kitchen.  The  dagger  or  the  poison  cup  is  for  the  palace 
hall,  the  cudgel  is  for  the  palace  buttery  and  kitchen. 
One  kills,  the  other  only  bruises.  Powers  of  heaven, 
in  some  way  la  marchesa  means  my  darling's  death." 

Then  he  wonders  how  in  the  name  of  chance  it  comes 
about  Lucia  has  been  elevated,  not  degraded;  that 


^2  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

Bianca  has  not  only  been  willing  to  give  up  her  control 
of  the  girl  she  hates,  and  place  her  in  the  suite  of  her 
mistress,  but  how  she  has  succeeded  in  gaining  for  the 
unknown  maid  a  post  in  which  many  noble  families 
are  anxious  to  place  their  daughters. 

But  this  has  been  easy.  With  the  subtlety  of  a 
demon,  Bianca  has  reasoned,  for  the  princess  to  be 
jealous  of  her,  Lucia  must  be  under  her  royal  eye  and 
be  deemed  of  rank  sufficient  to  make  her  highness 
notice  her. 

Therefore  she  has  gone  to  the  Princess  Maria  with 
this  specious  tale:  "  I  have  just  discovered  the  daugh- 
ter of  an  English  gentleman  who  lived  in  Cremona, 
but,  journeying  to  his  own  country,  has  perchance 
met  bandits  or  some  mishap  on  the  way  and  never  re- 
turned to  his  wife  and  daughter.  His  wife,  Emelia 
Castiglione,  is  of  the  best  blood  of  Siena.  The  Eng- 
lish gentleman  is  cousin  to  a  belted  earl,  but  from  him 
no  moneys  having  come — I  learned  this  from  the 
banker  St.  Croix,  of  Cremona — and  her  mother  hav- 
ing died,  the  girl  has  been  bound  apprentice  to  the 
singing  master  Giacomo  Pasquale,  who  intends  to 
place  her  upon  the  stage.  The  money  you  so  gen- 
erously gave  me  last  night  to  make  thy  chiding 
hand  seem  lighter  to  me,  your  Highness,  I  have  used 
to  prevent  this  girl's  blood  being  sullied  by  her  being 
placid  among  the  women  of  the  opera.  Her  beauty  is 
worthy  of  the  maids  about  you.  Her  voice  is  as  lovely 
as  ever  made  melody  divine.  My  own  funds,  in  ob- 
taining her  release  from  Pasquale,  have  been  ex- 
hausted; I  can  make  no  proper  provision  for  the  young- 
lady.  Will  you  not,  in  your  beneficence,  add  her  to 
your  train?" 

"  She  is  noble?"  queries  the  princess. 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  1 73 

"  Oh,  of  better  blood  than  many  of  those  about 
you." 

"  Yes,  I  know  the  Castigliones,"  says  Maria.  "And 
her  father,  you  say " 

"  Is  cousin  to  the  Earl  of  Orford." 

"  Oh,  I  have  heard  of  that  great  nobleman.  These 
English  earls  are  richer  than  most  Italian  princes," 
remarks  la  princessa.  "  But  if  she  has  appeared  upon 
the  public  stage  that  settles  it;  I  cannot  admit  the  girl." 

"  She  has  not  appeared,  your  Highness.  She  has 
never  sung  except  her  lessons  to  her  singing  master." 

"  You  swear  she  is  noble?  " 

"  Yes!  "  And  with  that  word  Bianca  makes  Lucia 
worthy  to  take  place  at  court,  for  in  those  days  the  line 
was  drawn  twixt  the  common  herd  and  those  of  gentle 
blood  as  strong  as  the  wall  of  China  against  the  outside 
barbarians. 

"And  as  to  her  robes?  " 

"  Ah,  that  can  be  easily  arranged,  your  Highness,  now 
that  I  have  your  royal  word,"  and  la  marchesa  sinks 
down  before  her  mistress  and  kisses  the  royal  hand  that 
the  night  before  had  slapped  her  stately  shoulders  till 
she  writhed. 

"  Very  well,  when  she  is  properly  gowned  send  her 
to  me.  I'll  listen  to  my  new  singing  bird,"  laughs  the 
princess. 

This  is  shortly  done,  for  the  maids  of  honor  are 
under  Bianca's  authority  when  the  princess's  hand  is 
not  upon  them,  and  they  are  very  anxious  for  her  favor. 
Calling  Metia  to  her,  the  Marchesa  di  Monteferrato 
says:  "  Your  form,  I  think,  is  about  the  same  as  the 
new  court  lady  that  comes  to  us  to-day.  Wilt  for  a 
day  or  two,  my  pretty  one,  lend  her  a  frock  or  two? 
Others  shall  spon  be  returned  to  thee  in  place  of  them," 


174  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

This  Metia,  wishing  the  marchesa's  favor,  and  being 
a  good-natured  girl,  is  very  happy  to  do,  as  she  has 
an  ample  wardrobe. 

Thirty  minutes  after  the  page  left  word  with  him, 
Villiers,  arrayed  in  the  fine  garments  that  Maria  had 
sent  to  him  the  night  before  and  looking  like  the  trou- 
badour of  old — for  he  wishes  to  appear  his  finest,  now 
that  the  bright  eyes  of  Lucia  Vesey  will  be  upon  him — 
enters  the  salon  of  the  Princess  of  Mirandola,  to  be 
astonished  at  the  luxury  of  the  little  court. 

A  thousand  wax  lights  make  the  scene  bright  as 
midday.  A  grand  orchestra  fills  the  air  with  music. 

The  great  entrance  hall  is  filled  with  footmen  in  ducal 
liveries,  and  gentlemen  pages  are  showing  in  the  court 
dames  and  demoiselles,  and  arranging  their  great  trains 
as  they  make  obeisance  before  the  dias  upon  which 
Maria  sits,  like  a  fairy  princess,  beside  a  man  infirm 
from  age  and  dissipation. 

This  is  her  father,  the  Duke  Francesco,  and.  seeing 
him  at  least  well  enough  to  leave  his  chamber,  a  great 
relief  comes  into  Villiers's  military  mind.  The 
princess's  ballet  and  banquet  will  surely  take  place  on 
the  evening  of  the  morrow,  the  evening  that  he  hopes 
and  prays  will  bring  surprise  and  capture  to  the  French 
garrison  within  this  town. 

But  military  strategy  is  soon  replaced  in  his  brain 
by  admiration  of  the  gorgeous  spectacle  before  him, 
which  seems  to  surround  one  lovely  girl,  and  it  is  not 
the  Princess  of  Mirandola. 

Immediately  behind  the  royal  party  stands  la 
marchesa  in  full  court  panoply,  her  white  shoulders 
flashing  from  a  jeweled  stomacher,  and  looking  as  regal 
as  her  mistress.  Behind  her  are  some  half  dozen  maids 
of  honor,  pert  and  pretty  as  they  stand  up  and  cast 


THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  175 

glances  at  the  gallants  making  their  bows  over  Maria's 
hand,  and  sometimes  casting  envious  looks  upon  the 
beauties  of  their  new  sister,  who  stands  in  the  place  of 
honor. 

For  Lucia  Vesey,  holding  the  royal  handkerchief, 
scent  bottle,  and  fan,  has  been  placed  but  a  step  or  two 
behind  the  princess,  and  a  little  at  her  right  hand. 

Gazing  at  her,  Villiers  wonders  at  the  graceful  ease  of 
the  girl.  He  attributes  this  in  his  old-time  way  to  her 
gentle  blood,  but  it  has  probably  come  to  her,  at  least 
in  part,  by  her  stage  training.  The  methods  of  exer- 
cise, dance,  and  gesture  that  had  been  intended  to 
make  her  easy  upon  the  boards  of  the  theater  have 
given  her  an  astonishing  grace  in  the  halls  of  a  palace. 
In  this  scene,  that  is  dazzling  to  her  eyes  almost  as  full 
sunshine  is  to  one  who  has  been  blind,  she  is  at  all 
times  graceful.  But  this  day,  dressed  like  a  drudge,  in 
the  solitude  of  an  attic  chamber ;  to-night,  gowned  as 
an  attendant  upon  a  princess,  surrounded  by  the  lux- 
uries of  a  court  and  bowed  to  by  the  courtiers  of  a 
palace,  Lucia  Vesey  seems  in  every  pose  and  move- 
ment as  much  a  lady  of  the  monde  as  any  of  her  sister 
maids  of  honor,  though  in  her  face  and  attitude  there  is 
the  unaffected  loveliness  of  bashful  modesty,  a  charm 
that  is  lacking  in  some  of  the  high-bred  minxes. 

Her  graces  are  such  that  the  princess  seems  to  be 
proud  of  her  new  attendant,  and  sometimes  as  she  re- 
ceives gallants  she  murmurs  to  them:  "  This  is  my  last 
maid  of  honor,  the  Lady  Lucia  Vesey.  She  is  of  very 
noble  blood,  her  father  of  high  English  family,  the 
cousin  of  the  Earl  of  Orford,  her  mother  one  of  the 
Castigliones  of  Siena.  Besides,  she  has  a  romantic 
history.  She  has  just  been  rescued  from  bandits  in  a 
low  quarter  of  the  town  by  that  clashing  young  French 


176  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

lieutenant,  Ambrose  de  Terrail.  Behold!  For  it,  he 
wears  already  on  his  breast  my  order  of  Santa  Mar- 
gherita,  which  I  have  just  bestowed  on  him." 

"  May  it  please  your  Highness,"  says  Lucia,  cour- 
tesying  to  the  carpet,  for  the  girl  cannot  bear  to 
hear  the  »glory  taken  from  the  man  she  worships, 
"  though  the  sword  of  the  brave  Terrail  did  noble  work, 
for  which  I  shall  forever  thank  him,  still  it  was  not  his 
blade  that  killed  the  bandit  who  had  seized  me.  It 
was  that  of  the  Chevalier  Montaldo,  your  troubadour, 
who  is  even  now  about  to  bow  to  you." 

At  this  the  princess,  casting  eyes  upon  her  maid  of 
honor,  and  seeing  that  the  girl  is  as  fair  a  rosebud  as 
ever  twined  about  a  throne,  isn't  so  well  pleased  at  the 
ardor  of  her  remarks  about  the  Troubadour  Montaldo, 
though  just  here  she  catches  a  gleam  in  Villiers's  eyes 
that  would  make  her  as  happy  as  the  queen  of  the  air, 
were  she  quite  sure  that  it  was  meant  for  her. 

But  turning,  she  proffers  her  royal  hand,  and  as  he, 
sinking  upon  one  knee,  salutes  it,  says:  "  Thrice  wel- 
come. Though  your  glory  and  gallantry  by  sweeter 
lips  than  yours  have  been  told  unto  my  ears ;  "  then 
laughs:  "  Mon  Dieu,  I've  heard  the  Lady  Lucia's 
glorious  voice  ring  into  the  air.  Let  me  tell  you,  trou- 
badour, if  you  sing  with  my  maid  of  honor  you  will  be 
but  considered  a  quacking  crow." 

"  Your  Highness,  I  have  sang  with  her,  and  know 
I  am  a  crow." 

"  Par  die  I  You  are  more  modest  than  most  singing 
gentlemen,"  giggles  Maria,  though  the  music  of  her 
laugh  is  tinged  by  a  harsh  vibration.  Then  she  queries: 
"  When  did  you  sing  with  her?  " 

"  In  order  to  make  my  voice  a  little  nearer  to  the 
merits  of  your  guitar  accompaniment,  your  Highness, 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  177 

for  the  fete  of  to-morrow  evening,  I  visited  the  house 
of  Pasquale,  the  singing  master,  and  there  by  his  direc- 
tion, to  make  my  tones  more  accurate,  sang  some  duets 
with  the  young  lady  you  have  just  placed  within  your 
train." 

"  Indeed,  sang  duets  with  her?"  the  princess  whis- 
pers, and  thinks  she  will  not  like  her  new  maid  of 
honor  as  well  as  she  had  thought  she  would. 

Just  here,  fortunately,  the  Comte  de  Vivans,  the  col- 
onel commanding  the  forces  of  his  Majesty,  Louis  XIV., 
steps  up  to  thank  the  princess  for  having  decorated  his 
lieutenant.  After  chatting  with  Maria  for  a  moment, 
he  turns  to  the  duke,  and,  bowing  to  him,  says:  "  Egad, 
your  Highness,  this  flight  of  Prince  Eugene  and  his 
army  gives  us  gentlemen  of  the  sword  plenty  of  time 
to  devote  to  the  lovely  women  of  your  court,  and 
makes  us  certain  of  a  merry  winter." 

"  You  do  not  fear  Eugene?  "  queries  the  princess 
archly,  a  little  roguish  smile  on  her  red  lips. 

"  Fear  him!  No,  this  town  cannot  be  taken  by  as- 
sault," remarks  De  Vivans,  stroking  his  moustachios. 
"  Neither  can  it  be  by  famine.  We  have  already  three 
thousand  barrels  of  flour,  besides  provisions  of  all 
kinds,  in  the  citadel.  I  shall  never  surrender." 

"  But  how  about  my  townspeople;  they  might 
starve?  "  suggests  the  Duke  Francesco  anxiously. 

"  Your  Highness,  do  you  think  I  would  surrender 
Mirandola  if  all  thy  subjects  died,  so  long  as  my  sol- 
diers had  meat  and  drink  sufficient,"  returns  the 
French  commandant  in  affable  indifference. 

"Oh,  but  what  will  7  do  in  that  case?"  queries 
Maria.  "We  may  have  enough  to  live  upon  in  the 
palace,  but  delicacies  like  fresh  partridges  from  the 


17$  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

mountains,  and  fish  and  oysters  from  the  Adriatic, 
would  be  impossible." 

"  Ah,  if  the  Princess  of  Mirandola  suffered,  then,  of 
course,  I  would " 

"  Surrender?  "  laughs  the  lady. 

"  Only  to  your  Highness,"  whispers  the  French 
commandant,  and  as  he  does  so  gives  Villiers,  who  is 
standing  at  respectful  distance  in  the  throng  of  cour- 
tiers, a  glance  that  shows  he  has  heard  some  word 
of  the  troubadour,  and  doesn't  like  him. 

"  You  are  sure  Eugene  has  retreated  across  the 
Po?"  asks  la  princessa  eagerly. 

"  Oh,  sure  as  grenadiers  head  the  column,"  laughs 
the  officer.  "  My  scouts  have  gone  as  far  as  the 
Secchia,  five  miles  from  here,  and  no  sign  of  him. 
Besides,  the  report  I  had  yesterday  from  the  Irish  ser- 
geant of  Dillon's  regiment  makes  the  thing  certain." 

"  Ah,"  whispers  the  princess,  who,  womanlike,  will 
play  with  fire.  "  the  Irish  sergeant  has  again  to-day  told 
you  his  story?" 

"  Parbleu,  your  Highness,  there  was  no  necessity 
of  it!  "  returns  the  French  commandant,  so  confidently 
that  Villiers  finds  it  difficult  to  refrain  from  smiling; 
for  in  truth  De  Vivans  thinks  the  Irishman  is  still 
in  town. 

Not  being  attached,  Teddy  had,  of  course,  no  need 
to  answer  at  roll  call,  his  name  being  not  upon  the 
•garrison  roster;  and  the  commissary,  finding  the  fellow 
does  not  report  to  him,  has  concluded  it  wisest  to  say 
naught  about  O'Bourke's  absence,  as  it  adds  a  ser- 
geant's rations  and  allowance  to  the  plunder  that  he  is 
already  lifting. 

Here  the  princess,  catching  warning  in  Villiers's  eye, 
thinks  it  wise  to  conclude  the  conversation.  Turning  to 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  179 

the  duke,  who  has  risen  to  retire  to  his  private  apart- 
ments, she  says:  "  I  will  preside  for  you  at  the  supper 
table  if  your  Highness  is  too  fatigued,"  and  courtesies 
to  the  very  floor  in  old  courtly  style  before  the  father 
she  twists  about  her  little  finger. 

Then  casting  eye  about,  she  says  to  one  of  the  cour- 
tiers in  her  father's  train:  "  Baron  di  Castalargo,  will 
you  lead  the  Lady  Lucia  in  to  the  dance  and  present  to 
her  enough  gallants  to  occupy  her  moments  pleas- 
antly." 

Rising,  she  offers  her  hand  to  Comte  de  Vivans, 
who,  representing  the  King  of  France,  will  lead  her  to 
the  minuet.  Upon  his  arm  she  sweeps  toward  the 
ballroom,  the  ladies  Laura  and  Violetta  holding  her 
long  court  train,  but  over  her  white  shoulder  she 
throws  a  glance  at  her  troubadour  to  tell  Villiers  that 
she  would  sooner  he  were  by  her  side  than  any  other 
cavalier  in  Christendom. 

A  burst  of  music  from  the  band  shows  that  Princess 
Maria  has  given  signal  for  the  dance.  A  moment  later, 
as  she  treads  the  stately  minuet,  the  royal  minx  almost 
curses  her  rank.  Were  she  but  a  plain  lady  of  the  court 
she  could,  without  remark,  seek  the  side  of  the  English 
captain  and  look  into  the  eyes  she  has  longed  for  ever 
since  she  was  torn  from  him  by  her  father's  illness  the 
night  before. 

However,  the  Lady  Lucia  is  but  a  simple  maid  of 
honor.  So,  after  she  has  stepped  a  figure  with  the 
Baron  di  Castalargo,  who  is  a  stately  gentleman,  and 
also  tripped  a  gavotte  with  Lieutenant  de  Terrail,  who 
has  eagerly  sought  that  honor,  Villiers,  whose  eyes 
have  never  left  her  graces,  wanders  to  her  side.  Though 
some  instinct  in  him  tells  him  it  is  dangerous,  he  can- 
not keep  from  the  woman  whose  voice  he  wishes  to 


l8o  THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

hear,  the  woman  whose  eyes  as  she  dances  have  sought 
him,  reproach  in  their  exquisite  depths.  To  him  her 
bashful  but  arch  glances  seem  to  say:  "  Others  have 
approached  me  in  my  new  station  to  do  me  honor,  and 
you  who  hold  my  heart  in  your  hand  keep  from  my 
side." 

As  Lucia  passes  on  De  Terrail's  arm,  Villiers  steps 
to  her,  and,  bowing  over  her  fair  hand,  asks  if  he  can- 
not have  the  honor  of  a  dance. 

"  Of  course,"  says  the  girl  lightly,  "  I  have  given  to 
one  of  my  preservers  my  hand  for  the  gavotte,  why 
should  I  not  give  to  the  other  my  company  in  the 
minuet?  " 

"  He  is  paying  you  a  great  compliment,  Lady 
Lucia,"  remarks  the  lieutenant.  "  But  yesterday  Sieur 
Troubadour  told  me  he  never  danced,  and  now " 

"  I  have  changed  my  mind.  Don't  you  think  I  have 
good  cause,  De  Terrail?  "  and  Villiers  looks  at  Lucia. 

Noting  his  glance,  her  bosom  of  gleaming  snow, 
which  rises  above  the  tight-laced  stomacher  of  glisten- 
ing satin  that  outlines  a  figure  which  has  been  made  by 
exercises  of  the  dance  and  fence  perfect  in  contour, 
begins  to  throb.  From  her  lithe  waist  a  court  train  of 
floating  gossamer  is  gathered  up  over  one  superbly 
rounded  arm  that  seems  ivory  tinted  through  the 
gauzes  that  it  supports.  Even  the  jupe  and  under 
petticoat,  from  which  the  train  is  raised,  are  lacey,  light, 
ethereal.  To  him  she  seems  a  sylph  as  she  places 
dainty  hand  upon  his  proffered  arm. 

A  moment  later,  as  they  walk  together,  he  feels  her 
light  touch  on  his  arm,  and  whispers  to  her:  "  I  would 
sooner  talk  with  thee  than  dance  with  thee." 

"  Then  I  know  a  nook,"  Lucia  suggests  eagerly, 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  l8l 

"What!  Have  you  learnt  already?"  mutters  Vil- 
liers,  a  dog-in-the-manger  snarl  in  his  voice. 

"  Oh,  the  Baron  di  Castalargo  led  me  to  it,"  laughs 
the  girl,  delighted  at  his  jealous  tone.  "  But  he  is 
rather  old,  and  married,  I  believe,  so  please  pardon 
me,"  she  courtesies  mockingly. 

Then  in  the  crowd,  which  fortunately  is  large  enough 
to  give  privacy  to  the  actions  of  anyone  except  prin- 
cess or  grandees,  she  flits  in  arch  invitation,  yet  with 
a  bashful  grace,  toward  an  old  stairway  draped  with 
banners.  Behind  this,  quite  out  of  the  general  ken, 
is  a  chair  and  footstool.  Upon  the  chair  in  unaffected 
grace  she  seats  herself,  and  motions  Villiers  to  her 
little  feet.  How  quick  a  woman  learns  the  coquetry  of 
love. 

"  This  all  seems  real  to  you?  "  he  asks. 

"  It  didn't  till  I  bit  my  finger  three  times,"  she 
laughs,  and  holds  up  a  white  digit  reddened  by  her 
pretty  teeth. 

"Are  you  happy  in  this  change?  " 

"  So  happy  that  sometimes  I  fear  I  shall  go  crazy 
from  very  joy!  " 

"And  a  little  dazzled?"  Villiers  half  smiles  at  the 
enthusiasm  in  her  gleaming  eyes. 

"  Yes,  dazzled  and  perhaps  confused ;  but  I  thank 
Tessa's  lessons  in  stage  dancing  that  I  am  not  awk- 
ward. I  never  tripped  over  my  court  train  once,  and  I 
can  courtesy  as  low  and  gracefully  as  Lady  Metia  or 
Mirabdle,  or  any  of  the  rest  of  them.  They  watched 
me,  thinking  I  would  make  some  gaucherie,"  laughs 
the  girl,  "  but  the  princess  petted  and  praised  me,  and 
said:  'Gentle  blood,'  that's  what  she  said  to  me, 
'  will  show  itself!  'Twas  in  thee,  maid.  I  would  have 
known  that  thou  v.ert  noble  h?id  you  with  a  besom  in 


1 82  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

your  hand  been  sweeping  out  a  manger.'  And  I  am 
noble  once  again!  "  she  breaks  out,  the  tears  welling 
up  into  her  grand  eyes.  "In  my  class,  in  my  rank; 
free  to  mate " 

"  With  me." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  so!  "  Then  her  face  grows  anxious; 
she  whispers:  "Santos!  should  papa  not  give  me  to 
you." 

"  Pish,  I  am  your  guardian;  I'll  give  you  to  myself!  " 
interjects  Villiers,  wincing  at  the  thought  of  the  girl's 
grief  when  she  knows  of  her  father's  murder.  "And 
as  your  guardian  I  would  have  you  hold  your  place  as 
high  as  any  of  your  comrades  of  the  princess's  cham- 
ber. A  full  pocket  makes  a  proud  head.  Here's  fifty 
goldpieces  to  pay  for  a  few  of  the  folderols  and  nick- 
nacks  a  fine  lady  needs."  He  holds  out  a  purse  to  her. 
"  Nay,  nay,  don't  shake  thy  pretty  head,  'tis  thy  fath- 
er's money,  and  now  'tis  yours.  I  would  have  given  it 
to  you  before,  but  Pasquale  or  his  sister  had  robbed 
you  of  it.  I  am  your  guardian,  and  command  you  take 
it  quick." 

"  Well,  if  you  tell  me  to,  of  course  I  obey,"  laughs 
his  ward.  "  Otherwise,  you  are  so  stern  to  me,  I  may 
be  punished."  Then  at  his  glance  of  reproach  she 
prattles :  "  No,  no,  thou  art  goodness  to  me  personi- 
fied. But  so  is  everyone  now.  La  marchesa  has  been 
to  me  as  though  I  were  her  child.  I  think  she  has  re- 
pented of  disliking  me.  These  beautiful  robes  are  at 
her  hands  and  the  Lady  Metia's,  who  has  been  very 
kind  to  me  also.  And  oh,  it  seems  to  be  such  a  differ- 
ent world  to  yesterday." 

"Ah,  this  coming  to  court  makes  the  charm?  "  re- 
marks her  cavalier,  a  little  surlily. 

"  No,  it  has  been  a  beautiful  world  since — since  we 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  183 

first  sang  together,"  whispers  the  girl;  then  suddenly 
astounds  him  by  the  passion  in  her  voice  as  she  breaks 
forth :  "  What  betrothal  could  be  as  strong  as  ours, 
dear  heart,  when  you,  in  that  low,  fetid  alley,  proved 
your  adoration  by  offering  for  my  poor  safety  your 
great  life." 

"And  you  are  my  own  true  love?  "  whispers  the  Eng- 
lishman, an  awful  rapture  in  his  heart. 

"  So  long  as  you  are  true  to  me,"  answers  the  girl, 
a  passion  in  her  voice  that  makes  him  know  she  is  a 
woman  as  regards  his  loyalty  to  her. 

And  this  smiting  him  with  his  amour  with  the  prin- 
cess, the  gentleman  goes  on,  a  kind  of  hang-dog  warn- 
ing in  his  tones:  "  Do  not  let  your  eyes,  Lucia,  re- 
proach me  as  they  did  to-night  for  not  being  ever  at 
your  side,  as  I  would  like  to  be.  Within  the  next  day 
or  two,  if  I  keep  away  from  your  dear  company,  know 
that  it  is  both  for  your  safety  and  your  good." 

"  For  my  safety?  For  my  good?  How  so?  "  The 
hazel  eyes  open  wide  in  mixed  amazement  and  re- 
proach. 

"  That  I  cannot  tell  you,  but  as  you  love  me,  trust 
me,  who  have  trusted  you  with  my  life.  Remember 
my  dread  situation  here.  For  if  you  look  at  me  as  you 
did  this  evening,  the  anguish  in  your  eyes  will  make 
me  so  weak,  perchance  it  will  be  my  ruin  and  yours. 
Remember  that,  and  do  not  trust  la  marchesa." 

"  Why  not?  She  has  repented.  She  kissed  me 
twice." 

"And  so  did  Lucretia  Borgia  when  she  said:  '  God 
be  with  you,'  and  meant  it  for:  'Get  ye  to  God.' 
W'hate'er  she  does,  distrust  it!  Though  be  careful  you 

do  not  indicate  this  to  her.  And  further '  But 

here  Villiers  snaps  his  jaws,  and,  rising  hastily,  bows. 


1 84  THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

"  Lady  Metia,  I  am  pleased  to  see  you,"  he  says  affa- 
bly. 

"  Cielo!  you  do  not  look  so  happy  to  see  me  as  you 
say.  Neither  does  Lucia,  but  I  am  come  to  you  as 
your  friend.  It  would  be  well  for  you  not  to  be  seen  too 
much  in  the  company  of  one  gallant.  Our  mistress 
thinks  it  best  we  make  our  favor  to  gentlemen  quite 
general.  Lucia,  the  princess  is  asking  for  you!  Run 
to  her,  quick!  " 

As  Lucia  departs,  Metia  would  step  after  her,  but 
Villiers's  detaining  hand  is  upon  her  white  wrist. 
He  wants  some  information  from  this  young  lady, 
and,  leading  her  to  Lucia's  seat,  says:  "A  few  words." 
Then  the  natural  gallantry  of  all  men  coming  to 
him,  he  adds:  "  You  have  not  treated  me  well  in  the 
last  day  or  two.  Since  you  were  kind  enough  to  feed 
a  hungry  shepherd  boy  you  have  not  been  near  me." 

"  For  thy  safety;  for  mine.  La  princessa  has  been 
very  stern  with  me  since  she  discovered  you  kissed 
me,  sir.  In  fact,  she  has  hinted  to  me  I  am  to  permit 
no  attention  from  you.  I  do  not  think  it  would  in- 
crease her  favor  for  Lucia  if  she  had  seen  her  sitting 
by  you  close  as  I  did.  But  is  not  Lucia  lovely?  We 
are  all  wondering  why  she  came  so  suddenly  to  court; 
some  protege  of  la  marchesa,  for  Bianca  borrowed  from 
me  the  robe  in  which  I " 

Here  even  as  she  babbles  Metia  grows  white  to  the 
lips,  for  la  princessa,  passing  on  the  arm  of  Henri  d« 
Pasteur,  colonel  of  the  regiment  of  Picardy,  the  second 
in  command  of  the  French  garrison,  sees  her  seated  by 
the  gallant  she  had  intended  should  never  feel  sweet 
Metia's  witcheries  again. 

With  one  cold  steely  glance  of  haughty  condemna- 
tion on  her  trembling  maid  of  honor,  Maria  of  Miran- 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  185 

dola  sweeps  on,  La  Marchesa  di  Monteferrato  follow- 
ing her,  and  the  ladies  Laura  and  Violetta  bearing  her 
train,  and  enters  by  a  side  door  the  supper  room. 

But  on  Bianca's  face,  as  she  furtively  glances  back, 
there  seems  a  strange  amazement  and  disappointment. 
Perchance  no  schemer  had  ever  felt  her  plots  go  more 
awry. 

Her  eyes  of  hate  had  been  stronger  than  the  prin- 
cess's eyes  of  love,  her  more  lowly  position  probably 
permitting  her  making  better  use  of  them.  Bianca  had 
noted  Villiers  led  apart  by  Lucia.  She  has  thought  to 
place  the  first  jealous  suspicion  in  the  princess's  heart 
against  her  new  maid  of  honor  by  giving  Maria  the  sight 
of  Villiers's  tete-a-tete  with  Lucia.  But  while  suggest- 
ing to  the  princess  this  quiet  way  to  the  supper  room, 
Metia  has  taken  Lucia's  place,  and  on  that  unfortunate 
beauty  the  princess's  rage  has  fallen.  Instead  of  cast- 
ing her  mistress's  suspicions  on  Lucia,  Bianca  has 
turned  all  suspicion  away  from  her,  thus  making  her 
insidious  task  more  difficult  than  it  had  been  before. 

As  the  door  closes  on  the  royal  party,  Metia,  her 
cheeks  very  pale,  her  pretty  lips  having  no  color  in 
them,  whimpers:  "  I — I  always  draw  the  bad  number 
in  the — the  lottery.  My  mistress's  anger  that  should 
have  been  for  Lucia  will  be  for  me.  Please  let  me  go!  " 
for  Villiers  would  ask  a  question  or  two  more  of  her. 
"  You  have  done  me  harm  enough,  sir,"  sobs  the  girl, 
tears  coming  into  her  lovely  eyes.  Then  her  face 
grows  pale  with  a  mighty  apprehension.  She  falters: 
"  My  heaven,  should  la  princessa  hate  me  for  this, 
what  fate  may  she  not  give  to  me,"  and  flies  from  him, 
leaving  Villiers  appalled. 

"  If  Maria  punishes  Metia  for  my  slight  gallantry, 
what  might  she  not  do  to  Lucia,  who  has  my  heart 


186  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

and  soul !  "  meditates  the  Englishman.     "  By  heaven, 
this  is  a  warning!  " 

And  thinking  of  Maria's  jealous  mind  and  tyrant 
nature,  to  him  comes  the  first  little  inkling  of  the  subtle 
deviltry  of  Bianca  Gonzaga. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  MIDNIGHT  DUEL. 

Then  suddenly  in  this  man's  mind  arises  the  dire 
thought  that  on  the  good  faith  of  Maria  Pico  hangs 
not  only  his  fate,  but  that  of  a  thousand  brave  men  who 
are  to  be  introduced  on  the  evening  of  the  morrow  into 
the  ducal  gardens. 

"A  word  from  her  little  riant,  piquant,  jealous, 
treacherous  mouth  to  De  Vivans  and  I  am  hung  out 
over  their  battlements,  and  no  warning  can  come  to 
Prince  Eugene  that  his  plan  has  failed  and  that  the 
detachment  will  be  cut  off  if  it  enters  the  walls  of  Mir- 
andola.  If  I  flaunt  Maria  or  am  too  cold  to  her,  in 
some  fit  of  jealous  pique  may  she  not  run  back  to 
the  arms  of  that  moustachio-stroking  Frenchman, 
and  as  she  kisses  tell  the  tale  that  will  destroy  not  only 
me,  but  everything  I  love  and  honor  on  this  earth? 
God  teach  me  to  do  my  duty  both  as  a  lover  of  Lucia 
and  an  officer  of  Prince  Eugene.  By  heaven,  I'm  in  a 
cruel  predicament." 

With  this  in  his  mind  he  strolls  into  the  big  sup- 
per room,  and,  seating  himself  at  one  of  the  humbler 
tables  in  the  royal  banqueting  hall,  looks  at  the  prin- 
cess, who  seems  like  a  beneficent  fairy  as  she  pre- 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  187 

sides  at  the  feast;  De  Vivans,  in  full  uniform,  stretch- 
ing his  long  legs  at  her  right  hand,  and  doing  good 
work  with  knife  and  fork  upon  the  breast  of  partridge, 
though  he  pauses  now  and  then  to  gaze  upon  Maria 
as  they  both  sip  the  sparkling  wine  of  Champagne. 

During  this  the  royal  lady  casts  a  few  hurried 
glances  at  her  troubadour,  and,  to  her  discontent,  notes 
he  looks  very  glum,  grinding  his  teeth  into  a  pullet's 
wing. 

Attributing  this  surliness  to  his  interrupted  tete-a- 
tete  with  the  Lady  Metia,  she  gives  him  a  nasty  glance, 
and  throws  her  eyes  about  for  the  other  culprit,  but 
her  unfortunate  maid  of  honor  has  discreetly  retired 
out  of  royal  view. 

Then  Villiers's  glance  searching  for  Lucia,  he  sees 
that  lady  seated  affably  beside  Lieutenant  de  Terrail 
at  one  of  the  lower  boards  and  drinking  champagne — • 
a  wine,  he  thinks  grimly,  cannot  have  passed  her  sweet 
lips  lately — with  decided  pleasure  and  vivacity.  For 
in  truth  the  girl  seems  now  in  another  world,  a  world 
of  mirth  and  happiness.  She  has  discarded  the  dull 
routine  of  Pasquale's  house,  with  its  long  tedious  exer- 
cises, trills,  scales,  notes,  and  appoggiaturas,  its  badly- 
cooked  cheap  food,  of  which  to  get  enough  she  had  to 
struggle  with  half  a  dozen  other  singing  girls,  for  the 
delicacies  of  a  royal  table,  this  bright  scene  of  courtly 
revelry,  and  the  admiration  of  a  hundred  gallant  faces. 
Besides,  in  her  heart  there  is  a  joy  that  makes  her  feel 
as  elated  as  if  she  sat  upon  the  ducal  dias  herself. 

"  What  are  the  triumphs  of  art,"  she  thinks,  "  to  the 
triumph  of  love?  "  and  turns  her  eyes  upon  the  trou- 
badour with  such  a  glance  that  it  makes  the  room, 
even  in  his  desperate  strait — to  him  a  heaven.  For- 
tunatelv  this  is  not  noticed  bv  Maria,  who  in  her  in- 


1 88  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

souciant,  bantering  way  has  drawn  the  French  officers 
about  her  into  a  discussion  of  the  late  campaign,  and 
is  now  listening  to  some  braggadocio  military  talk  of 
Monsieur  de  Vivans  and  his  second  in  command,  Henri 
de  Pasteur. 

Some  of  this  is  said  in  a  loud  voice,  and  it  coming 
to  the  ears  of  the  troubadour,  Lucia's  face  grows 
anxious  as  she  sees  him  grow  red  with  rage,  then  pale 
as  death,  as  his  hand  seeks  his  sword  hilt,  which  for- 
tunately he  has  not,  a  troubadour  at  court  only  wear- 
ing a  dagger. 

For  the  colonel  of  the  regiment  of  Picardy,  Henri  de 
Pasteur,  speaks  from  the  other  side  of  the  Princess 
Maria.  In  arrogant  voice  he  says  confidently:  "Your 
Highness  need  not  fear.  No  officer  of  Prince  Eugene 
dare  attempt  these  works.  I  have  crossed  swords  with 
them  too  often  not  to  know  their  only  successes  have 
been  when  they  have  been  behind  breastworks  and 
ditches,  as  at  Chiari.  In  the  open  field  they  fly  from 
us.  Dost  think  they  would  attempt,  when  we  are  forti- 
fied and  intrenched,  what  they  dare  not  on  the  field 
of  equal  battle?  Bah,  how  Eugene  always  flies  from  us 
there." 

Then,  for  the  life  of  him,  Villiers  cannot  help  giving 
the  gentleman  answer :  "  Your  pardon,  Monsieur  le 
colonel,"  he  says  from  the  humble  end  of  the  board, 
rising  to  give  his  speech  effect,  "  I  have  seen,  though  I 
am  a  man  of  peace,  Prince  Eugene  lead  an  army.  It 
was  against  the  Turks  at  Zenta.  If  you  had  seen  him 
then,  if  you  had  fought  under  him  then,  you  would  not 
say  Eugene  feared  any  troops  on  earth.  He  didn't 
that  day  when  he  saved  Christendom  from  the  Otto- 
mans." 

"  Oh,  we  will  not  doubt  Eugene's  courage,"  says 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  189 

the  French  officer.  "He  is  a  French  prince,  born  in 
France.  It  is  said  when  the  news  of  Zenta  came  to 
Marly  our  monarch  toasted  him.  But  against  French 
troops  it  is  a  different  matter  than  against  barbarous 
Turks." 

"  Who  have  been  the  dread  of  Europe  for  three  hun- 
dred years,"  cries  Maria,  deftly  putting  an  end  by  her 
royal  lips  to  a  discussion  that  is  drawing,  she  knows, 
too  much  attention  upon  Eugene's  spy.  Her  words, 
of  course,  prevent  the  French  colonel  replying, 
especially  as,  turning  about,  she  jeers  the  troubadour 
by  saying:  "  Sieur  Montaldo  has  sung  so  often  of  the 
Turks  in  Venetian  couplets  that  they  are  very  buga- 
boos to  him,  as  gentlemen  of  the  sword  are  usually 
to  gentlemen  of  the  voice." 

The  wit  of  royalty  is  generally  well  received,  and  a 
loud  laugh  comes  from  the  ladies  and  gallants  at  the 
supper  tables. 

But  Villiers  answers  naught.  Though  he  grinds  his 
teeth  together  at  her  slurring  words,  he  knows  a 
brighter  wit  than  his  has  taken  him  from  a  discussion 
that  might  have  brought  suspicion  on  him;  and  with 
suspicion  ruin  to  the  spy. 

But  the  slight  from  the  princess's  lips  in  the 
very  presence  of  the  woman  he  loves  annoys  him,  es« 
pecially  as  he  hears  some  young  officers  and  some  fair 
ladies  of  the  court  remarking  at  the  putting  down  of  a 
simple  troubadour. 

He  glances  at  Lucia  and  sees  in  her  face  that  his 
shame  is  her  shame,  and  wonders  miserably  does  she 
too  think  me  a  coward.  But  he  need  not  fear  for  the 
opinion  of  his  love.  She  has  heard  him  offer  to  make 
a  brave  man's  sacrifice  for  her.  She  has  seen  him  meet 
four  swords  for  her  salvation,  and  the  girl's  bright 


190  THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

mind  immediately  suspects  that  it  is  his  critical  posi« 
tion  in  this  town  garrisoned  by  the  French  that  causes 
a  gentleman,  whom  before  she  had  thought  quite 
haughty  and  at  times  rather  arrogant,  now  so  ex- 
tremely humble. 

But  if  Villiers  wishes  for  an  opportunity  to  dis- 
play his  courage,  it  comes  quite  shortly,  though  in 
rather  an  unexpected  way. 

The  princess  a  little  after  this  rises.  At  her  sign  the 
whole  company  gets  to  their  feet.  Casting  one  plead- 
ing glance  at  the  troubadour,  she  retires,  her  ladies  fol- 
lowing after  her.  This  glance  unfortunately  De  Vivans 
notes.  He  has  heard  some  light  words  about  the  trou- 
badour and  the  princess  that  have  put  him  into  no  good 
humor  with  the  gentleman  of  the  voice. 

This  look  on  another  man,  from  the  woman  whose 
love  he  has  been  suing  for  again,  drives  him  to 
frenzy.  For  the  colonel  commandant  in  the  arms  of 
Maria  Pico  had  passed  a  pleasant  month  until  she  grew 
tired  of  his  sabreur  graces,  though  for  her  his  passion 
is  as  warm  as  when  first  his  lips  met  hers. 

He  growls  to  himself :  "  Can  I,  commandant  of  the 
garrison  and  representative  of  my  king,  bring  this  gen- 
tleman of  high  notes  to  book?  "  But  after  a  little  quick 
thought  he  concludes  that  it  will  neither  be  to  his  dig- 
nity nor  his  duty  to  his  royal  master  to  cross  swords 
with  a  wandering  minstrel.  Still  some  one  else  might 
do  it  for  him.  Therefore,  the  officers  of  the  gar- 
rison moving  about  one  with  the  other,  he  contrives 
to  get  beside  a  certain  fire-eating  lieutenant  of  his  regi- 
ment, one  Gaston  de  Belcourt,  a  Gascon  noted  for  his 
skill  in  fence,  and  likewise  for  his  love  of  showing  it. 

"  My  colonel,"  says  that  gentleman,  "  did  it  not  do 
us  all  good  to  see  how  the  beautiful  princes?  flouted 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  Ipt 

the  arrogant  knave  who  talks  of  battles  as  if  he  had 
smelt  powder  and  drawn  sword  ?  " 

"  They  say  he  drew  a  good  blade  to-night  to  save 
that  pretty  maid  of  honor." 

"  Excuse  me,  colonel,  but  it  is  quite  well  known  here 
that  Ambrose  de  Terrail  is  too  modest  in  his  story.  It 
must  have  been  his  sword  that  cut  the  ruffians  down. 
Just  look;  the  creature  is  but  a  boy  in  stature.  Be- 
sides, how  meekly  he  took  the  suggestion  that  sing- 
ing historical  ballads  had  made  him  a  poltroon. 
Diable,  I  have  a  mind,  with  your  permission,  Monsieur 
le  Colonel,  to  see  what  this  windslinger  who  cuts  the 
throats  of  bravos  can  do  with  me." 

"  He  will  fight  you,  I  think,  if  that  is  what  you  wish," 
says  De  Vivans,  looking  Villiers  over  carefully. 

"  You  think  he  will?  With  your  permission  I'll  try 
him." 

"  With  my  best  wishes,"  laughs  the  colonel,  and 
looks  pleasantly  after  his  hulking  lieutenant,  who  is  a 
big  fellow  of  extreme  length  of  arm  and  rapier  reach. 

Walking  down  the  tables  until  he  gets  within  con- 
venient distance  of  the  troubadour,  who  is  now  drink- 
ing his  Chiante  rather  sadly,  the  bright  eyes  of  Lucia 
being  no  more  here  to  please  him,  Monsieur  De  Bel- 
court,  raising  up  his  voice,  says  quite  merrily:  "  Gen- 
tlemen, I  am  about  to  propose  the  health  of  one  who, 
though  he  doesn't  wear  a  sword  by  his  side,  is  still 
said  to  be  a  match  for  half  a  dozen  ruffians  of  the 
street,  a  child  whose  mustache  is  in  futuro,  the  boy 
troubadour  Montaldo." 

"  Boy  troubadour?  "  snarls  Villiers,  rising  angrily. 

"  Or  perchance  baby  troubadour,"  jeers  the  big  lieu- 
tenant; "  you  look  scarce  weaned." 
At  this  there  is  a  burst  of  laughter  from  the  sur- 


1 92  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

rounding  officers,  many  of  whom  have  drunk  too  lib- 
erally of  the  princess's  wine. 

"And  that  explains  your  favor  with  the  fair  sex," 
goes  on  the  sneering  officer,  "  the  ladies  think  you  but 
a  child  at  nurse,  and  fondle  you  as  such,  and  at  their 
innocent  caresses  you  plume  yourself,  thinking  they 
have  given  triumph  to  a  man,  when  they,  poor  dears, 
think  they  are  dandling  a  suckling  on  their  knees." 

"  Does  that  feel  like  a  suckling's  blow?"  says  Vil- 
liers  savagely,  and  his  insulter  goes  down  with  an  Eng- 
lish fist  planted  straight  between  his  eyes. 

In  a  second  half  a  dozen  of  his  comrades  are  up  with 
their  hands  on  their  swords,  crying :  "  Kill  the  scclerat, 
who  insults  an  officer  of  ours!  " 

But  De  Terrail,  standing  beside  Villiers,  says:  "  He 
drew  sword  with  me  as  gallantly  as  ever  gentleman 
drew  blade.  Besides  he  is  noble.  Is  a  man  because 
he  wear  not  our  uniform  to  endure  an  insult  which 
would  make  any  of  us  wish  the  blood  of  his  best 
friend?  " 

"  That's  all  I  want — his  blood.  Keep  back,  gentle- 
man. He  is  my  prey!  "  cries  De  Belcourt,  getting  up. 

"  You  shall  have  it  if  you  can  take  it,"  answers  the 
troubadour,  a  wild  joy  lighting  his  face. 

"  You  will  meet  me?  " 

"  With  the  greatest  of  pleasure.  Will  any  gentle- 
man here  be  my  second?  " 

"I  will!"  cries  Ambrose. 

And  within  two  minutes  the  affair  is  arranged;  cut 
and  thrust  rapiers,  the  men  to  meet  within  half  an  hour 
under  the  bastion  that  flanks  the  palace  gate. 

"  The  moon  will  be  quite  well  up  by  that  time,  sig- 
nore,"  blusters  the  French  bully.  "  Of  course,  you 
know  you  have  seen  your  test  sunrise." 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  193 

At  this  a  few  of  his  brother  officers  laugh.  Gazing 
it  Villiers's  short  stature,  they  generally  imagine  De 
Belcourt,  who  is  notorious  for  his  deadly  sword  play, 
will  have  an  easy  matter  of  it;  still  one,  a  grizzled 
veteran  of  good  birth,  who  had  once  been  maitre 
d'armes  in  a  cavalry  regiment,  though  he  now  wears 
an  ensign's  uniform,  steps  beside  De  Belcourt  and  whis- 
pers to  him :  "  Be  very  careful  in  this  affair.  Your 
boy  has  the  activity  of  a  monkey,  and  I  think  the 
strength  of  a  little  Hercules.  If  he  knows  much  of 
the  sword  you  will  not  have  an  easy  matter  of  it." 

"  Nom  de  Dieu!"  answers  the  gentleman  to  whom 
this  unpleasant  advice  is  given,  "  did  I  not  spit  the 
Baron  de  Montraile,  who  was  considered  the  best 
swordsman  in  Milan?  I  know  their  Italian  method. 
The  minute  I  destroy  his  straight  point,  bah,  he  is 
gone! " 

He  grins  viciously  at  Villiers,  who  is  holding  hasty 
consultation  with  his  second  at  the  other  end  of  the 
long  room  and  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  French  offi- 
cers, for  these  mostly  side  with  their  comrade,  though 
they  generally  know  that  the  insult  has  been  unpro- 
voked, and  that  the  Gascon  has  done  a  very  scurvy  act. 

Now  the  news  of  such  an  affair  flies  about  a  palace 
with  the  rapidity  of  lackeys'  tongues.  The  serving  men 
in  the  supper  room  have  whispered  it  to  those  in  at- 
tendance in  the  corridor.  The  court  pages  have  all 
heard  of  it,  and  one,  an  imp  scarce  twelve  years  of  age 
and  the  favorite  of  the  princess,  thinks  he  may  venture 
with  his  news  into  his  mistress's  apartments,  for  he  is 
very  young,  and  is  treated  like  a  spoiled  child  by  Maria, 
who  generally  laughs  at  the  rogueries  of  her  petit 
Alfonzo. 

So,  passing  the  gentlemen  in  waiting  outside  the 


194  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

door  of  the  princess's  apartments  by  saying :  "  A  mes- 
sage for  her  royal  highness,"  the  imp  gets  into  the 
first  room  of  the  princess's  apartments,  an  antecham- 
ber full  of  her  maids  of  honor,  who  are  chatting  about 
their  gallants  and  giggling  over  their  conquests. 

"Do  any  of  you  love  the  poor  troubadour?"  cries 
the  child.  "  Don't  all  give  tongue  at  once!  And  don't 
all  cry  your  lovely  eyes  out!  That  big  French  devil, 
Gaston  de  Belccmrt,  is  going  to  spit  Montaldo  as  he 
would  a  frog.  He  first  called  the  troubadour  a  suck- 
ling boy.  Then  poor  Montaldo  declared  he  had  been 
weaned  at  least,  a  year,  and  to  prove  he  was  no  babe 
felled  Frenchy  to  the  earth,  and  now  De  Belcourt  is 
going  to  run  the  poor  Sieur  Montaldo  through  the 
body  and  cut  his  high  note  throat  at  the  bastion  by  the 
gate." 

At  this  announcement  there  is  a  little  scream  from 
most  of  the  young  ladies,  which  fortunately  drowns  a 
sobbing,  gasping  sigh  from  one  of  them.  But  just  at 
this  moment  the  grinning  Alfonzo  receives  such  a  ciiff 
beside  the  ear  that  it  turns  him  round  so  that  he  can 
receive  another  sounder  one  upon  his  other  cheek. 

"  Thou  lying  ape!  "  cries  the  princess,  who  at  men- 
tion of  her  troubadour  has  stepped  hurriedly  from 
the  inner  apartment.  "Thou  jabbering  Cupid \  Kill 
my  troubadour?  Why,  doesn't  De  Belcourt  know  that 
Montaldo's  arms  are  steel — his  embrace  strong  as  a 
Hercules' !  "  She  stops  her  careless  and  excited  words, 
which,  happily,  are  smothered  by  the  boy's  screaming, 
and,  giving  to  Alfonzo  another  sounding  slap,  orders 
hoarsely:  "  Fetch  me  a  lackey  to  take  this  imp  out 
to  the  courtyard  and  horsewhip  him  till  he  uses  his 
tongue  in  other  ways  than  lying." 

"It's  true!    It's  true!    I  saw  the  Frenchman's  long 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  195 

sword  half  drawn.  Don't  have  me  whipped  for  telling 
the  truth!  "  implores  the  boy. 

And  Maria,  guessing  his  words  are  true,  and  rather 
fearing  that  her  glances  may  have  had  something  to 
do  with  this  matter,  for  she  now  imagines  De  Vivans 
caught  one  or  two  of  them,  runs  hurriedly  into 
her  chamber  and  calls :  "  Marchesa,  to  me  quick !  " 
and  whispers  to  her :  "  God  help  me !  God  help  me  if 
they  murder  the  only  man  I've  ever  loved !  "  For  this 
lady  always  thinks  her  last  passion  is  the  truest. 

By  this  time  Villiers  has  left  the  supper  room  in 
company  with  his  second.  He  will  not  permit  himself 
to  think  of  Lucia.  The  fear  of  never  seeing  her  bright 
face  again  might  lessen  the  firmness  of  his  nerves,  for 
he  knows  his  man  means  blood.  De  Terrail  is  also 
whispering  to  him:  "  I  would  it  were  any  other  that 
you  met.  De  Belcourt  always  kills.  He  has  no  mercy. 
Besides,  he  is  an  expert." 

"  Don't  fear  for  me,"  answers  the  Englishman.  "  I 
am  an  expert,  too.  Ten  years  in  Rome,  I  know  the 
best  method  of  the  Italian  school,  and  that's  not  the 
straight  point  always.  But  I'll  show  you  the  trick  in 
half  an  hour." 

"  Then  I'll  call  for  you  at  your  rooms  in  twenty 
minutes." 

"  Thank  you.  Bless  you  for  standing  by  a  stranger 
against  even  one  of  your  own  nation.  Don't  think  I 
will  forget  it." 

The  two  young  men  clasp  hands  again,  and  Villiers, 
going  to  his  apartments,  enters  them  and  locks  and 
bolts  the  outer  door  carefully  behind  him.  Then  he 
steps  into  his  inner  chamber.  A  curious  smile  lights 
up  his  face;  he  murmurs:  "  I  expected  you,  your  High- 
pess.  Thank  God  that  you  are  here." 


196  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

For  before  him  stands  the  Princess  Maria;  her  face 
pale,  her  eyes  agonized.  "  Forgive  me,  forgive  me, 
dear  one,"  she  murmurs,  "  for  the  slur  my  lips  put  on 
you  this  night.  That  was  to  save  your  life,  but  it 
didn't,"  she  gasps.  "  Those  French  brutes  are  going 
to  kill  you." 

"  Not  with  my  consent,  madame." 

"  I  know  I  treated  you  badly,"  she  falters,  "  but,  mi 
adorato,  I  couldn't  dance  with  you.  Your  apparent 
lowly  rank  would  have  made  it  dangerous  for  you,  for 
me.  Oh,  how  I  longed  to  clasp  your  dear  hand.  And 
for  revenge  on  me  you  called  that  Metia  to  your  side. 
Didst  thou  make  love  to  her?  If  so,  I'll  have  the  little 
minx's  blood!  "  The  royal  eyes  are  blazing. 

"I  love  Metia?    Absurd,  your  Highness." 

"  Of  course,  it's  absurd.  You  love  but  me.  God 
bless  you  for  the  words."  Her  arms  go  round  him; 
then  she  pleads:  "  But  you — you  must  not  risk  your 
precious  life.  Tell  them  you  cannot  fight,  you  are  a 
troubadour." 

"  Tell  them  I  am  a  coward?  They  would  despise  me 
— as  you  would,  too,"  mutters  Villiers  in  so  stern  a 
voice,  she  droops  her  streaming  eyes,  but  still  en- 
treats :  "  I  cannot  bear  the  danger  on  your  life." 

"  You  must!  Wouldst  thou  love  a  dastard, 
madame?  " 

"  No,  no;  I  love  a  hero.  I — I  don't  fear  for  you  if 
they  but  give  you  equal  combat.  Your  arms  are  strong 
as  if  you  were  Achilles,  and  I  have  brought  you  this 
sword,  made  by  the  greatest  armorer  in  Toledo.  Its 
spring,  they  say,  is  perfect;  its  weight  admirable." 

In  an  instant  she  has  picked  up  from  the  table  a 
bright  shining  weapon,  and,  Villiers  taking  it  from  her 
hand,  hefts  it  and  tests  it  and.  driving  it  full  force 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  1$) 

against  the  stone  wall,  finds  that  he  holds  a  blade  such 
as  a  man  might  use  to  fight  for  woman's  honor  or  for 
woman's  love. 

"  God  bless  you.  You  will  take  my  gift  to  guard 
your  gallant  life,"  half  sobs  the  princess.  Then  her 
eyes  grow  luminous;  she  murmurs:  "  Now  we  must 
only  think  of  each  other.  Miserimus,  if  he  kills  you 
before  you  prove  your  love  to  me."  Then  her  embrace 
is  so  tender  it  would  make  a  hermit  weak. 

"  Madame,  we  have  other  things  to  think  of  now 
than  dalliance." 

"  Oh,  heaven,  what  do  you  mean?  "  For  he  has  un- 
clasped her  white  clinging  arms  and  put  her  from  him. 
"  You  said  you  thanked  God  I  was  here,"  she  sobs. 

"  Yes,  for  something  more  than  even  love."  His 
voice  is  very  low.  "A  thousand  brave  men  to-morrow 
night  will  be  in  yonder  garden.  On  our  action  hangs 
their  safety  and  their  lives.  In  case  I  fall  to-night " 

"  Oh,  misericordia,  no!  " 

"  You  must  take  message  to  the  officer  in  com- 
mand." 

"And  you  dead,  what  will  I  care  for  plots  and  sur- 
prises. I'll  send  a  pigeon  to  Eugene  to  say  the  plan  is 
spoiled." 

"  For  my  military  honor,  you  must  not.  For  my 
memory,  have  courage  to  go  down  into  yonder  kiosk 
and  show  the  officer  how  his  men  can  reach  the  win- 
dows of  the  theater  and  enter  the  palace  of  your  father. 
If  you  are  at  the  foot  of  the  shaft  in  the  garden-house  at 
eight  o'clock  to-morrow  evening,  you  will  be  in  time. 
There,  I  think,  you  will  meet  a  tall  cavalry  officer 
named  Paul  Diak.  Trust  him  as  you  would  me!  " 

"  But  I'll  not  love  him  as  I  do  you." 


198  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

"  Pish,  these  instructions  are  in  case  I  die.  Forget 
me;  there  are  others  in  the  world." 

"  To  me  there  are  no  others  in  this  world."  Despite 
him,  her  arms  close  around  him,  for  few  men  can  be 
brutal  to  a  woman  they  see  despairing  at  thought  of 
losing  them,  and  to  unclasp  Maria's  embrace  would 
have  taken  almost  savage  strength. 

So  she,  her  white  bosom  beating  against  his  breast, 
sobs:  "  If  you  die,  my  life  is  dead,  also,"  and  her  voice 
rings  true,  for  the  princess  is  a  woman  who  loves  most 
the  man  she  fears  to  lose.  Then  she  commences  to  up- 
braid herself:  "  Dear  one,  'twas  my  glance  put  De 
Vivans  on  you ;  "  next  shudders,  "  They  don't  mean 
to  give  you  a  living  chance.  Their  swords  will  all  be 
in  your  body  because  I  adore  you." 

"  No,  the  French  officers  are  gentlemen.  They'll 
grant  me  a  fair  fight.  That's  all  I  ask,  and,  barring 
some  unlucky  chance,  I'll " 

"  Comeback  to  me!  Come  back  to  me!  "  He  feels 
the  rounded  muscles  in  her  white  arms  contract  and 
hold  him  as  if  they  could  not  let  him  go. 

"  Come  back  to  me,  and  I'll  love  you  as  if  you  were 
a  king,"  she  sobs ;  then  suddenly  she  screams  :  "  Oh, 
mercy,  that  accursed  knocking  at  the  door !  " 

"  Quiet!  They  will  hear  you,"  whispers  Villiers,  for 
De  Terrail  is  thundering  on  the  outside  portal,  and 
calling:  "  If  you  would  be  in  time,  Montaldo,  come!  " 

"  What  do  I  care  who  knows  my  love  for  you!  "  she 
pleads,  desperately.  "  Give  me  a  kiss,  just  one.  Your 
lips  have  not  sought  mine  all  this  night.  It  may  be  the 
last."  She  draws  his  face  to  hers  with  frantic  strength, 
and  her  lips  linger  cm  his  as  if  they  never  would  leave 
them. 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  199 

But  a  hoarse  cry  is  without:  "  Montaldo,  come! 
Our  time  is  short." 

So  he,  breaking  from  her,  closes  the  door  of  the 
chamber,  and,  with  her  sword  in  his  hand,  passes 
through  his  sitting-room  and  opens  the  portal  into  the 
corridor.  "  I  am  ready,"  he  says,  shortly. 

He  looks  at  the  princess's  sword  within  his  hand.  It 
is  as  fine  a  rapier  as  ever  left  Spanish  workshop.  But 
suddenly  he  thinks:  "  She  gave  it  to  me,  she  who 
is  making  me  untrue  to  my  love  even  as  I  go  perhaps 
to  death.  It  might  be  a  curse  upon  me.  The  other  was 
a  good  blade."  With  this  he  tosses  the  princess's  gift 
to  one  side  and  takes  the  plainer  weapon  with  which 
he  had  let  out  the  lives  of  three  hard  fighting  bravos. 
"  Diavolo !  "  he  thinks,  grimly,  "  good  steel,  will  you  and 
I  make  it  a  quartette  of  villains  to-night?  " 

He  is  already  passing  along  the  corridor  following 
his  second,  who  seems  rather  gloomy,  and  tries  to  give 
the  Englishman  some  advice  and  points  as  regards  his 
antagonist's  sword  play.  "  Be  very  careful  of  his  lunge 
en  quarte  after  disengagement,"  Ambrose  suggests. 
"  Beware  of  his  riposte  du  tac  au  tac.  It  comes  quicker 
than  lightning,  and  is  always  in  good  line.  He  has  taken 
lessons  from  Labat  himself." 

By  this  time  they  have  issued  from  the  palace,  pass- 
ing both  ducal  and  French  sentries,  for  Villiers  has  not 
done  taking  observations  for  the  morrow,  and  notices 
the  palace  is  well  occupied  by  guards  from  De  Vivans's 
garrtson. 

A  short  two  hundred  yards  and  they  turn  from  the 
little  street  to  enter  a  grassy  esplanade,  which  is  im- 
mediately behind  the  bastion  nearest  the  palace.  Here 
are  gathered  a  number  of  French  officers  and  a  clump 
of  gentlemen  of  the  court,  a  lot  of  boys,  some  of  them 


2OO  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

carrying  torches,  a  couple  of  surgeons  with  tourni- 
quets, knives,  forceps,  and  other  cheery  instruments  to 
duelists,  besides  a  tag-rag  of  court  pages,  lackeys,  and 
hangers-on  at  the  palace. 

In  an  open  spot  stands  De  Belcourt  and  his  second, 
Captain  Morran,  of  his  regiment.  The  moon  has  rise"n 
well  over  the  bastion  and  puts  a  pale,  subdued,  yet 
ample  light  upon  the  scene,  for  these  men  will  fight 
like  masters  of  the  sword,  by  touch  of  blade,  which  is 
a  sixth  sense  to  them. 

Five  minutes  later,  their  blades  being  measured  and 
found  to  be  within  required  length,  for  absolute  pre- 
cision in  that  matter  was  not  the  custom  at  that  time 
in  European  duels,  the  two  men  are  about  to  take  posi- 
tion, when  suddenly  De  Belcourt's  second  remarks: 
"  Your  man,  De  Terrail,  wears  a  medallion  on  his 
breast.  It  might  turn  my  principal's  point." 

Ambrose  is  about  to  hold  forth  his  hand  for  Lucia's 
portrait,  but  Villiers  says  shortly:  "See,  I  place  this 
behind  my  back;  there  it  cannot  protect  me!  " 

"  Diable!  "  jeers  his  adversary,  "  it  looks  as  if  it  were 
a  miniature  he  wears  upon  his  breast.  I'll  run  my 
sword  blade  through  both  his  and  the  lady's  heart." 

This  scoff  at  his  divinity  destroys  the  last  drop  of 
mercy  in  Villiers,  if  he  had  any  of  it  before,  for  his 
opponent. 

Twenty  seconds  later  De  Belcourt  and  he  stand  face 
to  face.  Both  have  thrown  off  jackets  and  doublets, 
Villiers  standing  in  the  ruffled  shirt  of  a  troubadour, 
trunks  and  stockings,  having  wisely  kicked  off  his  Ven- 
etian boots  that  there  may  be  no  chance  of  slipping  on 
the  greensward;  the  French  lieutenant  fronts  him  in 
his  uniform  trousers,  plain  white  shirt,  with  sleeves 
rolled  up  to  the  shoulder,  showing  a  massive  right 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  2OI 

arm,  the  muscles  playing  easily  under  his  white  skin, 
their  tendons  seeming  to  be  whipcord. 

The  disparity  in  size  between  the  men  would  seem  to 
make  it  a  laughable  affair,  and  one  or  two  young 
French  officers  giggle  at  the  sight.  For  Villiers,  with 
his  boots  off,  stands  scarce  five  feet  five  against  the 
other  man's  six  feet  one,  and  the  long  arms  of  the  taller 
man  give  to  him  much  longer  reach  of  sword,  an  awful 
handicap  in  this  battle  to  the  death. 

To  some  words  of  his  second,  the  Frenchman,  just 
as  he  has  taken  his  position,  has  answered :  "  Don't 
talk  to  me.  I'll  kill  this  boy  whose  mustache  is  not  yet 
grown.  He  shall  grow  it  in  his  grave." 

But  Villiers  heeds  not  a  taunt  which  was  meant  to 
make  him  lose  his  presence  of  mind. 

So  the  two,  standing  before  each  other,  salute  and 
take  position  and  begin  their  sword-play  warily.  A 
few  straight  quick  thrusts  and  disengagements  to  dis- 
cover each  other's  favorite  defense  and  attack,  then  Vil- 
liers, fencing  cautiously,  keeps  almost  out  of  distance. 
"  Diable!  "  thinks  the  Frenchman  confidently,  "  he 
uses  our  style  of  rapier  play,  not  the  Italian.  At  this  I 
have  him,  sure.  Sapristi,  Montaldo  thinks  so  himself. 
He  keeps  quite  out  of  distance." 

And  Villiers  does  think  so,  for  in  the  opening  passes 
he  has  discovered  that  De  Belcourt  has  an  attack  en 
quarte,  that  with  his  great  length  of  reach  might  make 
a  maitre  d'annes  very  wary.  Besides,  he  finds  the 
fellow's  wrist  is  steel,  his  position  perfect,  his  rapier 
point  always  straight  for  his  heart.  To  win  he  must 
bring  his  head  to  aid  his  hands.  Therefore,  as  he 
fences,  to  the  astonishment  of  the  lookers-on  and  the 
dismay  of  his  second,  the  troubadour  now  seems  to  be 


J02  THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

apparently  sluggish  in  his  movements  with  both  hand 
and  foot. 

Noting  this  also,  De  Belcourt  thinks  he  has  even  an 
easier  job  than  he  had  expected.  With  such  an  ama- 
teur he  dare  try  a  time-thrust,  even  those  most  danger- 
ous ones  which  are  not  made  across  his  opponent's 
blade.  "  I'll  recover  quick  enough,"  cogitates  the 
Frenchman,  savagely.  "  Besides,  my  rapier  will  be 
through  his  heart.  He  will  never  touch  me.  Just  wait 
till  that  moon  goes  behind  a  passing  cloud." 

Half  a  minute  afterward  the  moon  goes  out  of  sight, 
and  as  darkness  falls  upon  him,  Villiers,  closing  his 
distance,  incautiously  fences  in. 

"  Now  is  his  death!  "  grins  Belcourt,  and,  with  light- 
ning play  of  wrist,  disengages  his  rapier,  and  lunges 
straight  at  the  Englishman's  heart.  As  he  thrusts  he 
gives  forth  a  little  cry  of  triumph,  he  is  so  sure  he  has 
the  troubadour. 

And  the  lookers-on  in  the  gloom  think  he  has  him, 
too,  for  Villiers  is  almost  prostrate.  Quick  as  a  cat 
he  has  dropped  almost  upon  the  ground,  his  toes  grip- 
ping the  greensward,  his  left  hand  supporting  his  body, 
his  long  straight  cut-and-thrust  rapier  pointed  straight 
in  line  with  his  adversary's  waist.  Then,  even  as  De 
Belcourt's  rapier  flashes  over  his  head,  his  frame,  as  if 
bent  from  a  spring,  flies  forward  in  riposte  and  a  good 
long  foot  of  his  bright  steel  issues  from  De  Belcourt's 
back,  just  under  the  left  shoulderblade,  and  glistens  red 
in  the  light  of  the  moon,  just  emerging  from  its  cloud. 
Then  he  is  back  again  in  position,  fearing  his  adversary 
may  have  strength  for  a  dying  thrust,  but  his  opponent 
staggers  forward  and  falls  beside  him. 

"  By  heaven,  they're  both  killed!  "  cries  De  Terrail. 

"  No,  but  Gaston  is,"  remarks  the  French  maitrc 


THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  203 

d'armes.  "  The  troubadour  did  the  trick  of  the  Italian 
Menzoni  at  Rome." 

"Diavolo!"  mutters  an  old  grizzled  Italian  cour- 
tier, "  it  was  the  stroke  of  that  Scotch  Chevalier  Crich- 
ton.  My  grandfather  told  me  of  that  wondrous  riposte 
the  Scotchman,  who  was  the  wonder  of  Italy,  made  in 
Mantua  the  night  Gonzaga  murdered  him." 

"  You  are  hurt,  Montaldo?"  asks  his  second,  step- 
ping forward. 

"  Not  a  touch,  but  the  other  man  is  dead." 

Then  there  is  a  hoarse  murmur  from  the  surround- 
ing officers,  one  or  two  of  whom  dissent  as  to  the  legiti- 
macy of  the  stroke.  But  the  grizzled  maitre  d'armes, 
stepping  forward,  remarks:  "As  fair  a  duel  as  ever  I 
saw,  and  I  have  crossed  swords  forty  times  as  second  or 
principal.  If  any  of  you  doubt  it,  let  him  talk  to  me, 
Achille  de  Laville!  I  stand  for  the  honor  of  the  French 
army!  "  This  settles  some  remarks  De  Belcourt's  sec- 
ond has  been  making. 

"  Will  you  come  with  me  to  my  quarters  in  the 
citadel?"  whispers  De  Terrail. 

But  Eugene's  spy,  though  he  would  like  of  all  things 
to  see  the  interior  of  the  French  stronghold,  says 
hastily:  "  No,  I'll — I'll  go  to  my  chamber  at  the  music 
master's."  He  thinks  De  Terrail  has  done,  perhaps,  too 
much  for  him,  and  he  fears  if  to-morrow  night  Eugene 
wins  this  place,  it  may  injure  the  gallant  young  French- 
man's prospects  in  his  service. 

"  You  had  better  go  to  the  palace,"  remarks  his  com- 
panion. "  It's  safer  there." 

But  Villiers  believes:  "It  is  not  safer  there!"  and 
says  shortly:  "I  should  have  too  many  people  run- 
ning after  me  to  hear  the  details,  my  friend." 

"  Ah,  yes,  that  pretty  maid  o,f  honor,"  murmurs  his 


204  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

second.  "  What  would  Mademoiselle  Lucia  Vesey  saj 
to  the  other  lady's  miniature?  " 

At  this  Villiers  bursts  out  laughing,  the  strain  seem- 
ing to  be  lifted  from  him  for  the  moment. 

So  the  two  calling  a  link  boy  to  light  them  on  their 
way,  stride  through  the  deserted  streets,  and,  at  Pas- 
quale's  house  on  the  Contrada  Pico,  bid  each  other 
adieu.  A  moment  after  getting  answer  to  his  knock, 
the  Englishman  is  admitted,  and,  ascending  to  his  little 
rooms,  goes  to  sleep,  to  dream  of  the  girl  he  heard  this 
very  day  making  melody  within  the  attic,  above  his 
head. 

And  all  this  night  the  Princess  of  Mirandola  waits 
panting  in  the  chamber  of  the  man  who  has  been  fight- 
ing this  death  duel :  at  times  listening  for  a  coming 
step,  her  white  arms  extended,  to  close  upon  him  as  he 
enters.  For  she  sighs:  "  If  he  lives  he  will  surely 
come  to  the  kisses  of  the  woman  whose  heart  is  with 
him." 

At  last  tired  with  waiting  and  worn  out  with  grief, 
she  shudders:  "  God  of  mercy,  the  man  I  love  is 
dead!  "  and,  going  through  the  secret  passage  to  her 
chamber,  wrings  her  hands.  Beside  her,  for  she  has 
been  told  to  guard  her  niistress  from  surprise,  is  the 
statuesque  figure  of  Bianca  Gonzaga.  To  her  Maria 
sobs:  "I  have  a  broken  heart;  my  troubadour  is 
dead." 

But  the  other,  fighting  down  a  smile  of  triumph  at 
her  tyrant's  misery,  says  placidly:  "  The  Italian  trou- 
badour dead?  The  news  came  two  hours  ago  that  he 
killed  the  French  swashbuckler,  ran  him  straight 
through  the  heart,  and  now  he's  gone  away  with  his 
second,  and  probably  they  are  cracking  a  bottle  of 
wine  or  two  over  his  victory." 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  205 

"Carousing  when  I  was  breaking  heart  for  him?" 
sobs  Maria;  then  suddenly  breaks  forth:  "  Diavolo! 
How  I  love  him,  this  little  giant  with  the  strength  of  a 
Hercules.  He  who  twists  me  round  his  finger.  He 
who  spits  these  Frenchmen  like  so  many  larks!  " 

To  this  Bianca  says,  a  cold  sneer  in  her  voice:  "An- 
other was  grieving  for  him  also,  and  now  is  happy. 
Listen!" 

And  the  princess  pauses,  and  hears  from  a  nearby 
chamber  the  sweet  voice  of  Lucia  Vesey  in  prayer  to 
God,  singing,  because  that  is  the  language  of  her  soul, 
a  Te  Deum  Laudamus  for  the  life  of  the  man  she  loves. 

As  its  last  glorious  notes  die  out  upon  the  air  antonish- 
ment  falls  upon  the  stately  marchesa,  for  her  mistress 
says  suddenly :  "  Down,  wench !  Upon  thy  knees  with 
me,  and  thank  God  also  for  the  life  of  him  I  adore!  " 


206 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 


BOOK  IV. 


A    WILD    NIGHT    IN    MIRANDOLA. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  MILITARY  GAUNTLET  OF  DE  VIVANS. 

Quite  early  the  next  morning  Villiers  awakes  to 
the  din  of  a  musical  house,  Pasquale's  singing  girls  get- 
ting to  their  exercises  betimes.  Trills,  runs,  scales, 
and  appoggiaturas  from  many  lips,  likewise  the 
tones  of  instruments  strike  upon  his  ears.  For  a 
moment  he  cannot  think  where  he  is,  but  after  a  little 
time,  his  location  coming  to  him,  he  listens  to  hear  the 
voice  he  loves.  Then  not  finding  it,  the  myriad  of  in- 
cidents of  the  preceding  day  come  crowding  upon  him. 
For  a  moment  they  seem  to  him  as  if  they  were  a 
dream.  Lucia  placed  in  the  rank  that  is  hers  by  right 
and  maid  of  honor  to  the  princess;  the  fight  with  the 
bravos,  and  the  midnight  duel. 

Finally  the  stain  of  De  Belcourt's  blood  upon  his 
finger  makes  him  know  his  dream  is  fact. 

Upon  this  crowds  the  question  of  what  the  for- 
tunes of  this  day  bring  to  him,  the  spy.  He  springs  up 
and  mutters :  "  To-night  is  the  night !  "  and  gets  into 
his  dothes  quite  rapidly. 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  207 

Knowing  now  that  his  game  with  la  princessa  is 
drawing  to  a  very  critical  climax,  he  doesn't  hurry  his 
steps  toward  the  palace,  but,  stepping  downstairs,  says 
to  Pasquale:  "  I  pray  you  another  lesson,  maestro. 
This  evening  is  the  one  in  which  I  sing  in  the  prin- 
cess's ballet." 

"  Sapristi,  yes!  Tessa  has  already  gone  to  give  the 
court  ladies  their  last  rehearsal,"  remarks  the  man  of 
music.  Then  he  chuckles  playfully:  "Are  you  as  good 
a  singer  as  you  are  a  fencer,  Sieur  Montaldo?  Corpo  di 
San  Marco!  I  have  heard  wondrous  tales  about  you. 
Three  bravos  spitted  in  the  street  fight,  and  then  Mon- 
sieur le  Lieutenant  of  De  Vivans's  regiment  done  to 
death  by  moonlight  in  a  duel.  And  our  singing  bird  is 
doing  very  well,  too,  a  maid  of  honor  to  la  princessa, 
but  la  marchesa  only  bought  Lucia's  time  from  me 
until  after  carnival.  Cospetto!  that  will  be  a  fine  ad- 
vertisement for  my  little  diva  and  make  her  worth  more 
ducats  on  the  stage  than  ever."  He  rubs  his  hands  to- 
gether complacently,  but  wouldn't  be  so  happy  if  he 
knew  the  thoughts  of  the  troubadour  gazing  at  him  and 
humming  over  a  little  piece  of  music. 

For  Villiers  is  communing  with  himself:  "  If  I 
strangle  this  gentleman  now,  how  will  it  affect  to- 
night's strategy?  "  Apparently  thinking  new  compli- 
cations will  not  aid  the  cause  of  Prince  Eugene,  he  cries 
cheerily,  giving  the  musician  a  playful  slap  upon  the 
shoulder  that  makes  him  quiver.  "At  the  harpsichord, 
dear  maestro,  and  teach  me  the  music  of  Filicaria!  " 

At  this  both  of  them  go  for  an  hour  or  two.  Then 
Sydney  suggests  affably:  "I  think  I  will  do -well 
enough,  don't  you,  maestro?  " 

"  Yes,  if  the  princess  does  not  bungle  her  accompani- 
ment on  the  guitar,  or  from  stage  fright  you  do  not 


»08  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

lose  your  voice,  you  will  do  well  enough  for  me  to  say 
I  taught  you.  Four  ducats  more  for  this  last  lesson,  I 
believe.  Thank  you  !  I'll  be  behind  the  scenes  to-night 
at  the  court  theater  with  Tessa  to  see  that  you  do  justice 
to  my  training.  Adio,  till  this  evening,  honored  trouba- 
dour." 

A  few  minutes  later  Villiers,  striding  from  the  house 
of  Pasquale,  thinks  it  well  to  see  if  preparations 
are  in  progress  for  the  jubilee  of  the  French  soldiers 
on  this  night  he  hopes  to  strike  them  in  a  way  that  will 
make  Louis,  their  master,  cry  out  from  his  gilded 
throne  at  Marly.  This  he  does  in  a  lazy,  dilettante 
sort  of  way,  fortunately  rinding  himself  not  over  prom- 
inent, for  the  town  is  full  of  people  come  in  from  the 
country  to  see  the  great  fete  Maria  of  Mirandola  makes 
to  her  allies,  the  French. 

Lingering  over  his  breakfast  in  the  Golden  Juggler, 
and  sipping  another  bottle  of  their  Lachrima  Christi 
with  good  appetite,  Sydney's  heart  beats  high  as  he 
sees  great  wagons  loaded  with  immense  hogsheads  of 
Marsala,  Chianti,  and  other  country  wines  going  up  to 
the  citadel  for  the  carousing  of  the  garrison;  likewise 
whole  bullocks  that  are  to  be  roasted  before  the  open 
fires;  goats  ready  for  the  spit,  great  bags  of  chestnuts 
newly  roasted,  and  lots  of  other  tempting  things  for  sol- 
diers' palates  to  make  them  sluggish  in  the  hour  of  their 
need. 

About  this  time  the  sound  of  fifes  and  drums  make 
him  look  quickly  forth.  To  his  concern,  he  sees  a 
strong  force  being  marched  toward  the  Concordia 
gate*  and  also  the  other  portals  of  the  town  being  well 
reinforced.  For  De  Vivans,  though  he  lets  his  men 
make  holiday,  is  too  formal  a  soldier  to  neglect  to 
thoroughly  police  and  outpost  his  garrison.  In  fact, 


THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  809 

Villiers  glumly  cogitates  the  French  would  be  quite 
safe  within  these  walls,  were  it  not  for  the  secret  en- 
trance to  the  ducal  gardens. 

This  strengthening  of  the  forces  at  the  Concordia 
gate  makes  it  necessary  he  communicate  in  some  way 
to  Prince  Eugene,  so  that  additional  men  may  be 
sent  in  through  the  secret  passage  to  reinforce  the 
regiment  of  Staremberg,  when,  having  taken  the  palace 
and  the  French  officers  at  banquet  therein,  they  rush 
out  to  capture  the  main  portal  of  the  city  to  permit  the 
entry  of  Eugene's  army.  Besides,  his  general  must  be 
also  warned  not  to  attempt  the  Concordia  from  outside 
the  walls;  reinforced  as  it  has  been,  Eugene  will  never 
be  able  to  carry  it  by  quick  assault.  To  communicate 
with  his  chief,  Villiers  must  use  the  carrier  pigeons  of 
the  princess. 

"  By  the  Lord  Harry,"  he  reflects,  "  I  wonder  did 
Maria  wait  for  me  in  my  chamber  all  last  night. 
Diavolo,  if  she  did  there  will  be  wild  reproaches.  I 
must  have  a  tale  to  tell  her,"  and  perfects  this  in  his 
mind  as  he  strides  toward  the  palace,  where  he  is  def- 
erentially bowed  to  by  the  court  chamberlain  and  the 
rest  of  the  Italian  gentlemen,  who  think  Montaldo  the 
Tuscan's  blade  has  done  their  country  great  honor  the 
night  before. 

"  Corpo  di  San  Marco! "  remarks  Conte  Rosario,  as 
he  walks  up  the  stairs  beside  him,  "  Sieur  Troubadour, 
I  would  have  known  you  were  of  noble  blood  without 
my  princess's  commendation.  The  way  I  saw  you 
handle  sword  last  night,  the  true  Italian  fashion; 
straight  point !  and  skip  to  one  side  or  the  other  like 
Capo  Ferro,  as  I  in  my  youth  (the  poor  old  gentleman 
is  now  seventy)  pinked  many  a  gallant  on  the  streets  of 
Cremona  and  Ferrara.  I  was  a  \vild  boy  then.  Egad," 


8IO  THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

he  simpers,  "  the  pretty  ladies  of  the  court — eh  ?  But  I 
won't  tell  tales.  Still  we  know  a  thing  or  two,  don't  we, 
you  and  I  ?  We  have  likewise  some  pretty  demoiselles 
here,  the  new  maid  of  honor.  Have  you  seen  her  ?  Quite 
naive,  with  lovely,  innocent  eyes,  and  form  like  Psyche. 
But  you  will  not  see  her  now,  though  your  eyes  are  look- 
ing round  for  her.  The  ladies  are  all  at  rehearsal  in  the 
theater ;  all  tripping  to  the  music  of  violins  their  dances 
for  this  evening.  Or  are  you  going  upon  the  stage  ?  " 

"  No,  I  shall  pass  into  the  gardens,"  murmurs  the 
troubadour.  "  I  wish  to  sing  alone  my  songs  for  this 
evening." 

"  Well,  if  you  have  such  piercing  high  notes  as  you 
Tiave  piercing  lunges,  do  you  take  me?  You'll  make  a 
hit  to-night  as  you  did  last  night,  eh?  The  side  stair- 
way leads  to  the  nearest  garden  entrance." 

"  Thanks,"  remarks  Viiliers,  "  I  know  the  way  quite 
well."  For  this  is  the  entrance  by  which  he  intends  to 
introduce  the  troops  to  cut  off  the  carousing  French 
officers.  So  taking  his  leave  of  the  bowing  chamber- 
lain, he  passes  into  the  ducal  gardens. 

The  sun  is  bright,  the  fountains  are  playing  briskly, 
the  grounds  are  lovely  as  those  of  Hesperides,  though 
they  are  nearly  empty,  for  they  are  set  apart  entirely 
for  the  use  of  the  court  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  these 
are  generally  preparing  for  the  grand  fete  of  the  even- 
ing, it  being  now  quite  well  into  the  afternoon. 

Viiliers  has  no  time  to  lose,  and  quickly,  though 
cautiously,  makes  his  way  toward  the  little  kiosk  that 
holds  the  key  to  the  military  situation.  Looking  about 
it,  he  sees  that  the  seat  which  conceals  the  entrance  to 
the  shaft  has  not  been  disturbed.  In  fact,  to  increase  his 
confidence,  there  is  dust  upon  it.  Likewise  he  casts  an 
anxious  eye  to  the  bastion  commanding  the  garden, 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  211 

To  his  concern  he  sees  the  guards  have  been  doubled  at 
this  point  and  there  are  three  field  pieces  in  position. 
"  With  these  loaded  with  grapeshot  and  langridge,  and 
turned  upon  the  ducal  gardens,  our  men  would  be  cut 
off,"  he  thinks,  and  his  face  grows  serious  as  he  reflects 
that,  even  without  opposition,  through  this  narrow 
subway  it  will  take  nigh  onto  two  hours  for  the  regi- 
ment of  Staremberg  to  enter  the  garden  quietly  and 
in  the  darkness  dispose  themselves  for  effective  attack. 
Just  here  he  is  interrupted  by  dainty  fingers  pinching 
his  ear. 

"  Guess  who  ?  "  cries  a  sweet  voice.  "  I  saw  you 
from  the  windows  of  my  chamber,  and  couldn't  fail  to 
join  my  troubadour."  Then  to  his  astonishment  the 
Princess  Maria  suddenly  breaks  out:  "You  darling! 
What  a  grand  fight  you  made  last  night,  and  'twas  for 
me.  Nay,  nay,  don't  deny  it!  Did  I  not  love  you,  De 
Vivans  would  not  hate  you  and  have  put  his  bully  upon 
you.  But  after  to-night  no  more  of  them !  "  This  in  a 
whisper  under  her  breath.  To  it  she  adds  archly :  "  I 
don't  believe  Bianca  would  see  me  if  I  kissed  you,"  and 
puts  very  tender  lips  on  him,  glancing  laughingly  to 
where,  some  hundred  feet  away,  court  etiquette  is  rep- 
resented by  la  marchesa. 

This  lady  now  keeps  watch  that  mademoiselle's  inter- 
view with  the  Englishman  is  not  intruded  upon. 

Then  Villiers's  words  bring  Maria  joy:  "You  are 
the  very  one  I  wish  to  see,"  says  the  Englishman 
eagerly. 

"  I  should  hope  so,"  laughs  the  minx. 
"Your  rehearsal  is  finished?" 
"  Yes,  it  went  off  to  perfection.     My  ladies  danced 
like  sylphs.    Besides,  I  have  a  new  one." 
"Indeed!    Who?" 


212  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

"  My  new  maid  of  honor,  of  course  !  Lucia,  she  trips 
the  minuet  as  prettily  as  any  of  them.  I  like  her  very 
much.  Last  night  she  sang  a  Laudamus  for  your  safety 
from  the  Frenchman's  sword." 

But  Villiers  dare  not  let  the  princess  run  on;  the  joy 
in  his  face  would  be  tray  the  secret  of  his  heart.  He 
says  shortly:  "  Bring  your  sweet  lips  to  business,  your 
Highness." 

"  Of  course,  I  will !  There !  There !  "  The  theres 
are  two  swift  kisses." 

But  he,  holding  her  at  arm's  length,  whispers  sternly : 
"  This  is  love,  not  war.  I  speak  to  you  of  war.  You 
have  means  of  communicating  with  Prince  Eugene. 
There  have  been  changes  made  in  the  guards  at  the 
gates  and  at  that  bastion.  This  information  I  must 
send  to  my  general  at  once." 

"  Of  course,  I  have  the  carrier  pigeons,  three  of 
them,  that  the  prince  sent  to  me." 

"  Then  this  message  must  be  forwarded  in  duplicate 
by  two  of  them  immediately." 

"Write  them!"  The  princess  extends  to  him  a 
little  gold-decked  note  book  with  jeweled  pencil. 
"  Write  them  very  small;  one  on  each  page,"  she  adds. 

And  Villiers,  hastily  addressing  Prince  Eugene,  jots 
down  the  position  for  the  regiment  of  Count  Starem- 
berg  to  occupy  after  it  enters  the  ducal  gardens,  and 
adds:  "Let  the  regiment  pass  through  the  little  tunnel 
immediately  after  dark.  If  no  warning  from  me  at  the 
bottom  of  the  shaft  in  the  garden,  all  is  well.  But  the 
men  must  not  attack  until  I  give  the  signal.  Then 
let  a  detail  enter  the  left  door  of  the  pavilion,  which 
will  be  open,  and  capture  the  great  stairway.  At  the 
same  moment  let  a  company  mount  by  the  little  garden 
ladders  they  will  find  about  the  grounds  to  the  wh> 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  213 

dows  of  the  stage  of  the  court  theater  in  the  great  pavil- 
ion. From  there  they  will  command  the  French  offi- 
cers at  banquet  in  the  main  body  of  the  theater.  Cut 
off  from  escape  by  the  great  stairway,  the  half  drunken 
French  officers  will  be  our  prisoners.  This  achieved, 
their  uncommanded,  carousing  men  in  the  citadel  and 
at  the  gates  of  the  town  will  be  an  easy  capture.  Trust 
me  to  join  the  regiment  of  Staremberg  in  the  garden, 
and  to  give  the  signal  at  the  proper  time.  V." 

This  he  carefully  duplicates,  and  she,  looking  over 
his  shoulder,  laughs:  "Bravo!"  and  claps  her  little 
hands;  adding:  "All  will  go  well  to-night.  Already 
the  wine  is  being  broached  in  the  citadel,  and  the 
French  soldiers  are  beginning  to  make  merry.  The 
carrier  pigeons  are  kept  in  a  little  cage  in  my  cham- 
ber." Her  eyes  gaze  at  him  questioningly.  "  Dare 
you  join  me  there?  'Tis  high  treason!  "  she  murmurs, 
"  but  you've  committed  that  before." 

"  I  dare  anything  for  my  cause." 

"And  nothing  for  me?  " 

"  You  are  part  of  my  cause." 

"  In  that  case,"  laughs  the  witch,  "  wait  until  I  have 
left  here  ten  minutes;  then  go  to  your  apartments, 
where  you  will  hear  from  me.  It  is  safer  that  we  be  not 
seen  walking  together.  A  troubadour  is  scarce  of 
fitting  rank  to  be  intimate  with  a  princess.  But 
still " 

She  kisses  her  hand  archly  at  him,  and,  leaving  the 
kiosk,  would  run  away ;  but  she  gets  no  further  than  la 
marchesa,  scarce  a  hundred  feet  distant.  This  lady 
stops  her  mistress  with  a  warning  glance.  Together 
the  two  face  le  Colonel  de  Vivans,  who  is  stroking  his 
long  moustachios  angrily. 
,  A  moment  later  the  princessa  poutingly  strolls  away 


314  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

by  the  side  of  the  French  commandant,  who  is  ap- 
parently saying  words  to  her  which  she  doesn't  like, 
for  once  or  twice  Villiers  notes  her  pretty  feet  kick  the 
gravel  of  the  walk  with  impatient  tread. 

Looking  at  this  from  the  retirement  of  the  kiosk, 
the  Englishman  jeers :  "  Ods  gunpowder  and  grape- 
shot!  The  French  fellow  seems  to  be  infernally  jealous 
of  the  pretty  princess.  Will  the  little  Circe  by  any 
chance  again  turn  to  his  arms?  By  heaven,  that  would 
be  very  dangerous,  both  to  me  and  to  my  cause."  But 
after  consideration,  he  concludes:  "And  yet  I  think 
not.  She  has  known  Arvid  de  Vivans  for  a  month,  she 
has  known  me  but  two  days.  The  new  broom  sweeps 
the  cleaner  with  ladies  of  Maria's  fickle  yet  intense 
temperament." 

Therefore,  quite  confidently  as  soon  as  the  French 
commandant  and  Mademoiselle  Maria  are  out  of  sight 
Eugene's  emissary  steps  to  his  little  chamber.  Here 
he  waits  in  anxious  impatience,  for  speed  is  vital.  Then 
the  sliding  panel  opens,  a  white  hand  beckons  to  him, 
and  the  soft,  sensuous  voice  of  Bianca  Gonzaga  mur- 
murs in  a  kind  of  eager  triumph:  "  Come!  " 

Passing  through  the  opening,  Sydney  follows  la 
marchesa  through  a  passageway  apparently  built  with- 
in the  very  walls  of  the  building.  "Are  there  any 
steps?  "  he  asks,  hurriedly. 

"  No,  it  is  straight  walking,  and  pleasant  greeting,  I 
think,  for  you,  sir."  Bianca's  voice  startles  the  Eng- 
lishman, it  is  so  constrained ;  but  what  this  indicates  he 
does  not  just  at  this  moment  discover. 

After  perhaps  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  of  walking 
Villiers  feels  the  white  hand  of  his  conductress  pressed 
against  his  face;  she  whispers:  "Stop!  Don't  enter 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  215 

till  I  signal  you.  The  trick  of  this  panel  is  exactly  the 
same  as  the  other.  See  where  I  press  the  button." 

With  this  she  passes  out  of  the  passageway  by  the 
secret  door.  A  moment  later  it  opens  for  him,  and  to 
Bianca's  word  the  Englishman  steps  into  fairyland. 

It  is  a  boudoir,  connected  on  one  side  with  the  cham- 
ber of  the  Princess  Maria;  its  walls  and  ceiling  all  danc- 
ing Cupids  and  bright  Grecian  skies.  The  sun,  which 
is  now  declining,  comes  into  it  through  a  great  con- 
servatory, which  adds  to  the  beauty  of  the  suite.  Being 
deftly  heated,  tropical  plants  grow  under  its  dome  of 
glass  at  all  seasons  of  the  year.  As  Villiers  looks,  he 
notes  to  his  astonishment,  amid  growing  orange  trees 
and  palms,  the  pineapples  and  bananas  of  the  tropics. 

At  the  side  there  is  another  room;  soft  curtains  drape 
the  arch  which  leads  to  it.  From  it  a  sweet  voice  com- 
mands :  "  You  may  retire,  Bianca !  " 

With  low  courtesy  la  marchesa,  passing  out  of  the 
room,  gives  one  hasty  curious  glance  toward  another  en- 
trance to  this  boudoir,  a  little  one  far  to  the  right,  appar- 
ently leading  to  some  cloak  or  dressing-room. 

"  This  way,  my  troubadour,"  whispers  Maria,  eagerly. 

In  a  second,  for  communication  to  Eugene  is  press- 
ing, Villiers  has  stepped  into  a  chamber,  whose  mag- 
nificence makes  him  start. 

Decorated  by  the  brush  of  a  great  artist,  its  shep- 
herds and  shepherdesses,  gods  and  goddesses,  in  their 
nude  beauties,  look  down  upon  him  from  its  walls. 
Before  him  stands  the  Princess  of  Mirandola,  her  face 
flushed,  but  looking  light  as  a  fay,  for  she  has  thrown 
away  her  prim  court  robe  and  is  in  an  afternoon 
negligee  of  shimmering  satin  and  lace  of  Valenciennes 
from  which  her  white  arms  flash  as  she  beckons  him  to 
her. 


«l6  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

"  You  need  fear  no  prying  eyes  or  intruding  lips. 
This  chamber  is  my  own.  Four  lackeys  three  rooms 
from  here  guard  its  entrance.  My  confidant  stands 
within  the  second  chamber.  None  dare  enter  here  un- 
less I  summon  them,"  she  remarks,  motioning  him  to 
take  seat  beside  her. 

"The  carrier  pigeons,  your  Highness?"  asks  Vil- 
liers  eagerly. 

"  You  always  think  of  your  mission  first  and  me 
last,"  she  pouts.  "  But  they  are  here." 

Her  delicate  hand  points  to  a  little  gold-tipped  cage 
which  contains  three  birds  of  passage. 

Tying  one  of  his  notes  under  the  tail  of  a  carrier 
pigeon,  and  looking  cautiously  to  see  he  is  not  noticed 
from  without,  Villiers  opens  the  casement,  throws  it 
into  the  air,  and  watches  the  bird  as,  after  circling 
higher  and  higher,  it  darts  northwest  toward  Gon- 
zaga. 

Three  minutes  after  he  dispatches  the  second  with 
the  duplicate  message,  the  princess  warning  him: 
"  Only  show  your  hand.  Every  lackey  knows  this  is 
one  of  the  windows  of  my  private  apartments." 

"  You  are  sure  these  dispatches  will  reach  Eugene?  " 
queries  the  Englishman  anxiously. 

"  Certainly !  Your  general  keeps  an  officer  waiting 
for  them.  Even  if  he  is  already  on  the  march,  this 
officer  is  to  follow  him." 

"  Then  all  is  prepared."  Villiers  emits  a  slight  sigh 
of  relief,  and  thinks  the  surprise  of  the  French  is  now 
arranged.  And  so  it  would  be,  were  there  not  a  wom- 
an in  the  compact. 

Replacing  the  little  cage  with  its  third  imprisoned 
bird  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  La  Princessa  Maria  whis- 
pers :  "  I  am  doing  great  things  for  your  master  and 


THE  LIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  217 

for  you,  at  imminent  risk  to  myself.  If  this  succeeds, 
your  rank,  my  Sydney,  at  least  will  be  that  of  a  col- 
onel." 

"And  your  duchy  will  have  safety  from  the  French 
forever,  your  Highness,"  returns  Villiers,  "  for  trust 
me,  Louis  XIV.  and  his  Spanish  cousin  are  already 
beaten.  Their  armies  will  never  cross  the  Po  again  in 
this  war.  The  crown  is  secured  to  your  father,  my 
pretty  one,  by  your  courage." 

"And  I  am  to  have  no  other  reward  from  one  whom 
I  have  made  a  colonel?"  murmurs  the  lady,  "  I  who 
have  waited  for  you  two  days  to  make  me  happy.  Tis 
two  hours  before  my  ballet;  two  hours  of  happiness  and 
joy." 

The  eager  entreaty  in  her  eyes  tells  Villiers  the  crisis 
of  his  enterprise  is  upon  him.  Military  duty  and  diplo- 
matic common  sense  suggest  to  him  that  to  slight 
Maria  now  will  be  both  dangerous  to  his  general's 
cause,  and  even  his  own  safety.  Besides,  the  lady  has 
an  arch  loveliness  that  might  make  a  man  forget  even 
his  marriage  vows.  The  compliment  of  her  eyes  is  a 
most  subtle  one.  They  say  she  adores  him.  When 
rank  implores  and  beauty  allures  with  every  art  of  fas- 
cination, 'tis  hard  to  be  stern  to  the  wooing  of  a  wom- 
an whose  one  plea  is  "  I  love  you! " 

Her  arms  are  already  about  him.  She  is  nestling  to 
him.  Her  lips  have  made  his  answer  hers.  Even  now 
she  has  perched  herself  upon  his  knee  like  a  naughty 
fairy. 

Under  these  alluring  eyes  and  these  entrancing  lips, 
Villiers's  truth  to  Lucia  Vesey  is  like  to  be  as  chaff  in 
furnace  flame. 

When,  by  act  of  Providence,  the  same  fair  face  which 
has  already  stepped  between  the  Englishman  and  two 


2l8  THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

unworthy  loves,  gives  him  respite  in  another.  The 
hand  of  Maria,  who  is  coquetry  itself,  is  playing  with! 
the  locks  that  cluster  about  his  neck.  She  is  laughing: 
"  My  fighting  troubadour!  That's  what  I'll  call  you, 
my  little  giant."  When  suddenly  her  delicate  fingers 
encounter  a  chain.  "  'Tis  the  talisman  last  night 
that  you  refused  to  remove  before  the  duel,"  she 
murmurs.  "  I  heard  account  of  it  from  Rosario's 
lips.  Let's  see  what  is  thy  charm.  Is  it  a  piece 
of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  or  the  True  Cross  ? "  Her 
hand  is  dallying  with  it,  when  suddenly  her  eyes  that 
have  been  trusting,  flame  with  a  jealous  fire;  she  cries: 
"  This  bauble  is  a  miniature — God  of  my  soul,  the  pic- 
ture of  some  lady  love!  " 

With  sudden  motion  her  agile  fingers  pluck  Lucia's 
portrait  from  his  neck. 

Fortunately  the  likeness  has  a  cover.  Before  Maria 
can  open  this,  Villiers  has  seized  her  hand,  and  though 
she  fights  with  him  and  slaps  his  face  with  all  her  dainty 
might,  he  holds  her  at  arm's  length  with  his  left  hand, 
and,  with  his  right,  secures  and  replaces  the  picture  of 
his  betrothed  beneath  his  doublet. 

"  Diavolo,  now  I  know  you  love  her!  "  screams  the 
royal  lady,  stamping  her  little  feet,  one  of  which  in  the 
struggle  is  bereft  of  its  tiny  slipper.  "  Forswear  ner, 
or  I'll  never  forgive  this  insult  to  my  love,  and  if  I  ever 
find  her!  "  Maria's  face  is  such  that  Villiers  knows 
now,  for  Lucia's  very  safety,  she  must  never  see  the 
miniature.  Quick  thought  tells  him  it  is  best  to  carry 
the  war  into  Africa ;  he  says,  sternly :  "  Why  should  I 
eschew  all  former  affections  when  you  have  not  cast 
them  away?  " 

"  Don't  dare  to  hint  that  I  do  not  love  you  with  my 
whole  heart  and  soul!"  cries  the  princess,  reproach 


THE   FlGfiTlNG  TROUBADOtlfc.  a  1 9 

in  her  voice  and  tears  coming  into  her  eyes  to  make 
them  more  alluring. 

"  Perhaps  within  the  minute — yes !  "  mutters  Sydney 
coldly,  though  his  heart  is  very  savage.  Maria's  vicious 
slaps  have  stung  not  only  his  cheeks,  but  his  pride. 
"  Cruel  one,  of  whom  do  you  accuse  me?  " 
"  Of  Monsieur  le  Colonel  de  Vivans,  eh?  "  jeers  the 
gentleman,  then  starts  aghast;  for  a  flaming  blush  flies 
over  the  fair  face,  which  a  moment  after  grows  pale  as 
death,  and  perhaps  as  deadly  in  its  malice. 

"  That  traitorous  Metia  has  betrayed  me!  "  she  cries. 
"  For  this  I'll  have  the  skin  whipped  off  the  jade's  white 
back.  She  has  prated  till  you  think  me  false  to  you." 
"  The  Lady  Metia  said  naught  of  your  amour.  I 
have  a  quick  eye,"  whispers  Villiers,  who  is  frightened 
at  the  fate  he  may  have  brought  upon  the  girl.  "  This 
speaks  for  itself." 

From  beneath  a  couch  where  it  had  been  petulantly 
kicked,  though  Sydney  did  not  know  this,  he  plucks 
a  military  gauntlet,  and  sneers:  "This  looks  as  if  it 
might  fit  monsieur  le  colonel,  my  dear  lady?" 

"Ah,  you  are  jealous.  Thank  God,  you  are  jealous. 
That  proves  you  love  me." 

"  I'll  never  love  you  unless  you  apologize  to  me  for 
the  degradation  your  little  hands  have  brought  to  me. 
Being  a  gentleman,  I  cannot  chastise  those  pretty 
cheeks  as  they  deserve.  I  can  only  make  my  bow  to  a 
lady  who  doesn't  respect  my  dignity." 

With  these  words,  which  he  hopes  are  an  easy  retire- 
ment from  a  position  he  knows  now  he  will  never  ac- 
cept, Sydney  would  retire  by  the  secret  passage. 

But  she  has  flown  to  him  and  caught  him  at  the  slid- 
ing panel,  and  sobbed :  "  I'll  forgive  you  when  you 
grant  me  that  miniature  that  I  may  destroy  the  face  I 


436  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

hate!  "  and  suddenly  pauses  and  mutters:  "  What  noise 
is  that?" 

"  Pish,  'tis  but  the  pigeon  crying  for  his  mates," 
says  Villiers. 

"  As  I  do  cry  for  you,"  she  begs,  despairingly.  "  Give 
me  that  picture,  dear  one.  Let  it  not  stand  between 
us.  Give  it  to  me,  and  you  shall  strike  me  in  return  if 
it  pleases  you.  Chastise  my  petulance.  I  love  a  man 
who  dominates  me.  Give  me  the  minx's  pert  face  as 
proof  of  your  pardon." 

"  That  I  shall  never  do!  "  whispers  rW  gentleman 
sternly.  "  I  don't  ask  apologies;  I  donV,  wish " 

"  Beware!  "    Maria'*  eyes  are  flaming  like  fire  opals. 

In  this  dread  moment  of  his  life,  Fugene's  spy  dare 
not  let  this  lady  know  he  has  done  with  her.  Therefore, 
he  jeers  in  amorous  severity :  "  For  thy  rebellion,  my 
pretty  vixen,  you  shall  sob  out  your  penitence  on  this 
breast  that  bears  the  picture  of  your  rival.  You  shall 
kiss  me  and  know  it  stands  between  our  beating  hearts, 
You  shall " 

But  he  has  made  a  mistake  in  the  character  of  Maria 
Pico.  "  Santos,  you  confess  I  have  a  rival!  "  she  mut- 
ters. Then  standing  with  white  arm  uplifted  and  blue 
eyes  cold  as  steel,  she  whispers:  "Another  insult  and 
your  head  will  fall,  ay,  even  if  mine  falls  with  it!  I 
give  you  until  after  the  ballet  to  surrender  that  picture 
to  my  hand.  Do  that  and  I  shall  be  as  wax  to  you,  for 
you  shall  be  my  fire."  For  one  second  her  eyes  grow 
tender  in  an  agonized  entreaty,  but  of  a  sudden  she  is 
again  a  Qytemnestra,  and  says  in  voice  that  is  hard  as 
the  steel  that  has  again  come  into  her  blue  orbs:  "  But 
if  not,  remember  no  slight  I  bear,  without  revenge! 
Go,  ponder  on  it,  and  know  Maria  Pico  means  her 
word!  "  then  cries  to  him:  "  Go,  quick!  " 


THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  221 

For  la  marchesa's  voice  floats  in  to  them  from  a  dis- 
tant apartment:  "Your  Highness,  your  father  de- 
mands audience.  I  think  he  wishes  to  ask  whether  he 
should  wear  pink  and  gold  or  blue  and  silver  at  to- 
night's fete." 

"  Go,  quick!  "  Maria  whispers,  "  but  remember  upon 
your  answer  hangs  more  than  perhaps  you  guess,"  then 
seizing  his  hand  and  fondling  it,  she  sobs :  "  God  forgive 
you  for  your  cruelty  to  me." 

A  second  after  she  has  shut  the  secret  panel  upon  her 
retreating  gallant  and  strides  away  with  pale  face  and 
trembling  lips  to  give  audience  to  her  royal  father. 

A  moment  later,  into  this  chamber  now  left  vacant, 
Bianca  Gonzaga  comes. 

After  one  hurried,  suspicious,  searching  glance,  la 
marchesa  glides,  serpejit-like,  toward  the  little  entrance 
draped  by  the  curtains.  Behind  it  is  a  small  dressing- 
room  ;  in  it  a  girl  standing  with  embroidery  frame  that 
has  just  dropped  from  her  hands,  and  a  bosom  beating 
as  if  it  would  burst  from  the  corsage  that  veils  its  beau- 
ties. 

To  her  she  says  affably :  "  Lucia,  'tis  strange  you  have 
not  yet  finished  your  tambour  work  for  me.  I  hope  no 
one  disturbed  your  labors.  But  it  is  time  you  dressed 
for  the  evening's  revels." 

To  this  the  girl  gives  no  answer,  only  moves  from 
the  room  with  slow  yet  trembling  footsteps  and  a 
stricken  look  upon  her  young  face,  which  shows  she 
has  endured  the  first  great  agony  of  a  woman's  love. 

Gazing  after  her,  Bianca,  in  devilish  glee,  thinks: 
"  By  Satana,  I  have  broken  your  heart,  my  pretty  jade! 
Now  for  the  others  whom  I  hate," 


222  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

VENUS  AND  THE  TROUBADOUR. 

In  his  own  apartment,  pondering  on  Maria's  words, 
Villiers  for  a  moment  thinks  she  means  in  case  he  plays 
not  Adonis  to  her  Venus  to  denounce  him  to  the 
French.  But  he  shortly  reflects  that  this  would  prove 
to  De  Vivans  that  she  had  played  double.  "  The  em- 
peror would  never  forgive  her.  Louis  XIV.  would 
probably  not  pardon  her.  Betwixt  the  two  fires  she 
would  not  remain  long  mistress  of  her  little  dukedom. 
The  minx  would  have  to  hate  me  very  strongly  before 
she  would  dare  do  that.  Anyway,  by  heaven,  military 
duty  can  be  hanged  when  confronted  with  my  love  for 
Lucia." 

Then  the  instinct  of  a  soldier  coming  to  him,  he 
gazes  cautiously  and  eagerly  from  the  window  of  his 
chamber.  It  commands  a  view  of  the  bastion  nearest 
the  secret  tunnel  through  which  the  regiment  of  Star- 
emberg  must  gain  the  ambush  of  the  gardens.  Dark- 
ness is  already  coming,  but  he  can  see  that  the  palace 
attendants  have  broached  a  cask  of  wine  for  the 
French  soldiers  on  duty  at  this  bastion.  "  So  far,  la 
princessa  has  kept  her  bargain  with  Prince  Eugene," 
he  thinks.  "  Sapristi,  she  has  gone  too  far  to  dare  to 
break  it  now." 

The  clock  in  a  neighboring  church  strikes  seven. 
Sitting  there,  he  watches  the  great  palace  begin- 
ning to  light  up,  and  its  illuminated  halls  shedding 
their  glows  into  the  darkness  of  the  night.  The  great 
windows  of  the  pavilion  in  which  the  royal  theater  is 
situated  arc  now  ablaze,  From  them  he  hears  the  dis- 


thE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  223 

tant  hum  of  the  stage  mechanics  setting  the  scenery 
for  the  princess's  ballet.  He  steps  out  into  the  main 
corridors,  which  are  now  bright  with  a  thousand  lamps, 
the  lackeys  standing  at  their  posts,  the  pages  at  their 
duty,  though  no  guests  have  yet  arrived.  Beyond  them 
at  the  palace  entrance  he  sees  that  the  French  sentries 
have  been  doubled,  though  from  the  babble  of  the  at- 
tendants in  the  halls,  as  he  strides  through  them,  he 
judges  that  there  has  been  a  wild  time  in  the  garrison  at 
the  citadel  with  the  princess's  wine  and  provender, 
one  of  the  pages  remarking:  "  The  officers  will  not  be 
here  quite  yet.  They  are  looking  at  their  soldiers,  at 
their  dances  and  their  sports." 

Just  then  Villiers  glances  at  the  great  clock  in  the  ves- 
tibule. Its  hands  point  to  ten  minutes  to  eight.  He 
hurriedly  goes  to  his  chamber  and  puts  on  the  poorest 
suit  he  has.  Under  his  cloak  he  buckles  on  his  two 
big  horse  pistols  that  he  had  brought  with  him  in  the 
goatherd's  sack.  Examining  their  primings  carefully, 
he  finally  replaces  them  with  fresh  gunpowder.  Then 
he  belts  onto  his  side  the  blade  that  had  done  such 
good  service  on  the  night  before. 

Thus  equipped,  with  beating  heart  and  silent  steps, 
he  goes  along  the  little  passage  and  down  the  private 
stairway  that  lets  him  out  upon  the  ducal  gardens. 
These  in  the  darkness,  to  his  delight,  he  finds  deserted. 
Everyone  is  in  the  lighted  palace,  for  even  the  lackeys 
are  interested  in  a  revelry  that  will  reach  the  royal  but- 
tery and  kitchens. 

With  quick  tread  he  at  last  gains  the  little  kiosk.  No 
one  is  there.  After  careful  reconnoitering,  he  lifts  up 
the  seat  that  hides  the  entrance  to  the  shaft,  and  cau- 
tiously in  darkness  descends  to  the  bottom  of  it. 

He  has  a  candle  in  his  hand  and  flint  and  steel. 


424  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

Here  he  will  strike  a  light  and  see  if  Teddy's  signal  is 
awaiting  him.  But  suddenly  his  arms  are  clasped 
tightly  from  behind  by  strong  grasp.  A  big  hand  is 
clapped  tight  over  his  mouth,  a  knife  flashes  before  his 
eyes,  and  into  his  ear  is  whispered:  "  Speak  above  a 
whisper,  and  you  die !  " 

For  one  instant  he  thinks  it  is  the  end  of  him,  and 
the  affair  also;  but  as  the  words  strike  his  ear  he  sud- 
denly gasps:  "Paul  Diak;  I  recognize  your  voice!" 

"  God  bless  you!  And  you're  Villiers;  I  know  your 
voice,  too.  O'Bourke,  release  him!  " 

"  Faith  and  I  will.  Bedad,  yer  honor,  we  feared  it 
was  some  sneaking  Frinch  spy  coming  down." 

"  You  see,"  remarks  Diak,  "  your  man  said  he 
couldn't  give  you  the  signals  without  he  had  your 
candles." 

"  Pish,  any  candles  would  have  done." 

"  So  I  thought,  but  I  didn't  understand  him  and 
deemed  it  best  to  come  here  and  wait  for  you  and  tell 
you  by  word  of  mouth  that  all  is  well." 

"Thank  God!" 

"  The  regiment  of  Staremberg  is  already  in  the  wood 
outside.  Our  cavalry  has  captured  the  only  French 
vidette  that  had  not  sneaked  in,  perhaps  against  or- 
ders, to  join  the  revelry  in  the  town.  Eugene's  army  is 
but  two  hours'  march  away,  just  the  other  side  of  the 
Secchia.  They  will  be  at  the  main  gate  at  the  latest  by 
half-past  ten  o'clock,  but  will  not  make  any  attack  or 
movement  until  our  signal  from  the  Concordia  gate. 
Besides  the  regiment  of  Staremberg,  six  hundred 
men  of  Mansfield's  are  in  the  wood,  immediately  be- 
hind us." 

"  The  prince,  then,  got  my  carrier  pigeons." 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  *2$ 

"  Yes,  Palfi,  of  his  staff,  killed  his  horse  to  overtake 
him  with  your  messages." 

"  Then  all  goes  well.  You  can  begin  in  half  an  hour 
from  now,  when  the  first  strains  of  the  royal  orchestra 
come  floating  through  the  open  windows  of  the  ducal 
theater,  to  introduce  your  men  into  the  gardens.  How 
long  will  it  take  you  to  get  them  in? " 

"  At  least  an  hour  and  a  half.  You  see,  only  one  man 
at  a  time  can  ascend  or  descend  the  ladders." 

"  That  will  be  soon  enough.  When  the  time  comes 
I  will  myself  step  into  the  garden  and  give  the  signal  to 
you.  Where  will  you  be?  " 

"  At  the  head  of  my  men,  of  course,"  whispers  Diak. 
"  The  prince  has  been  so  kind  as  to  permit  me  to  lead 
the  attack!  " 

"  Then  I'll  meet  you  in  the  clump  of  trees  just  behind 
the  central  fountain.  You  know  the  place,  O'Bourke." 

"  Indeed  I  do,  sir.  I  know  every  foot  of  the  blessed 
town.  But  did  ye  meet  Umberto?  " 

"  Umberto  is  dead." 

"  God  bless  ye.     How  did  ye  murder  him  ?  " 

But  Diak  cuts  in:  "There  is  a  bastion  commands 
this  place.  From  the  wood  in  the  still  night  I  heard 
the  French  sentries  challenging." 

"  Yes,  they  have  three  field  pieces,  but  I  think  are 
half-drunk  with  the  princess's  wine,"  answers  Villiers. 
"  But  still  if  we  are  discovered  before  full  entry  is  made 
our  men  will  certainly  be  cut  off.  Four  hundred 
French,  I  know,  are  stationed  immediately  inside  the 
Concordia  gate.  So  adieu  till  we  clasp  hands  at  the 
fountain.  Remember,  don't  attack  until  I  join  you 
and  give  the  word."  With  silent  greeting  Villiers 
passes  up  the  shaft,  his  heart  that  had  been  heavy  beat- 
ing rapturously. 


226  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

Ten  minutes  after  he  is  in  his  chamber,  and,  looking 
placidly  at  the  entry  of  some  lackeys,  who,  by  the  or- 
ders of  the  high  chamberlain,  place  before  him  a  slight 
refection. 

Of  this  the  troubadour  eats  naught,  and  only  drinks 
a  pint  of  wine,  which  will  clear  his  voice,  for,  like  most 
amateurs,  Sydney  is  proud  of  his  attainments,  and 
laughs  confidently  to  himself:  "  Egad,  I'll  sing  the 
revenge  out  of  that  witch's  heart." 

For  the  soldier  part  of  the  affair  being  arranged  to 
his  liking,  he  has  a  kind  of  ambition  to  shine  as  min- 
strel as  well  as  warrior.  "  Besides,  Lucia  will  listen  to 
me  and  sneer  if  my  voice  breaks,"  he  thinks,  and  pro- 
ceeds to  his  little  chamber.  There  he  makes  as  gor- 
geous a  toilet  as  ever  minstrel  made,  of  doublet  of 
slashed  satin  and  hose  whose  silk  displays  each  mus- 
cle of  his  well-developed  limbs. 

He  sighs  as  he  has  to  discard  his  sword,  but  his  two 
horse  pistols,  buckled  in  a  belt  round  his  waist  beneath 
his  doublet,  are  concealed  in  his  large  slashed  balloon 
satin  trunks. 

He  has  hardly  finished  this,  when  a  court  official  en- 
ters, bowing  to  the  earth,  and  says :  "  Mademoiselle  la 
princessa  begs  your  attendance  at  the  ballet,  Sieur 
Montaldo." 

And  following  him,  he  goes  on  his  way  to  play  trou- 
badour, and,  with  the  noose  of  a  spy  around  his  neck, 
to  sing  in  the  camp  of  his  enemies. 

Directed  by  the  attendant,  Villiers  soon  stands  mid 
a  group  of  the  humbler  courtiers  under  the  blaze  of  the 
myriad  of  wax  lights  of  the  throne  room  of  the  ducal 
palace  and  watches  the  royal  lady.  The  princess 
is  seated  beside  her  aged  father,  the  Duke 


THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  22^ 

Francesco,  receiving  with  regal  hauteur  and  courtly 
ceremonial  the  officers  of  the  French  garrison. 

These,  some  eighty  of  them,  are  headed  by  Colonel 
le  Comte  de  Vivans.  Each,  in  turn,  after  being  wel- 
comed by  the  father,  sinks  on  one  knee  and  salutes  the 
fair  hand  of  the  daughter. 

Villiers  notices  De  Vivans's  moustachios  linger  very 
long  over  the  white  fingers.  "  Diable,  that  military 
dandy  is  still  begging  the  little  witch  for  her  favor  and 
forgiveness,"  he  sneers. 

He  also  notices  that  the  sweet  little  despot's  face  is 
very  haughty,  and  that  her  beautiful  eyes  give  no  re- 
sponse to  the  ardent  glances  of  the  French  command- 
ant. For  this  evening  Maria  Pico  seems  beautiful 
enough  to  charm  the  heart  of  any  man.  She  is  in  full 
court  robe  of  ceremony,  whose  close-laced  bodice  out- 
lines the  blended  loveliness  of  a  Venus  and  the  grace- 
ful lines  of  an  Atlanta.  From  its  jeweled  radiance 
spring  white  arms,  dazzling  shoulders,  and  bosom  of 
snow  in  that  generous  display  which  was  the  fashion 
of  her  time.  A  long  train  of  royal  purple  velvet,  borne 
by  four  pages,  adds  to  the  dignity  of  her  figure  by  giv- 
ing it  apparent  height. 

Behind  her  stand  six  court  ladies,  each  beautiful, 
though  none  of  them  approach  the  glory  of  their  mis- 
tress ;  for  there  are  no  maids  of  honor  present,  these 
are  all  dressing  for  the  ballet.  So  Villiers  sees  not  the 
face  he  looks  for. 

In  close  attendance  on  Maria  is  La  Marchesa  di  Mon- 
teferrato.  A  sprinkling  of  counts,  cavaliers,  and  knights 
of  the  little  duchy,  each  in  the  elaborate  French  court 
dress  of  that  period,  are  headed  by  the  lord  high  cham- 
berlain. 

"  Hoity  toity !  "  think.s  Villiers,  "  Mirandola  has  granr 


228  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

deur  enough  for  the  court  of  an  empire,  and  yet  but  a 
hundred  soldiers  in  its  beggarly  army." 

But  his  reflections  are  broken  in  upon  by  the  Duke 
Francesco  excusing  himself  to  his  guests  on  account  of 
failing  health,  and  hoping  that  they  will  enjoy  a  pleas- 
ant evening  at  the  hands  of  his  daughter,  to  whom  he 
leaves  their  care  and  entertainment. 

The  prince  being  escorted  out  by  his  immediate  at- 
tendants, his  daughter  says:  "  Here  I  have  not  ladies 
enough  to  mate  you  French  gentlemen,  but  we  will 
show  you  the  beauties  of  my  court  in  the  ballet  en- 
titled, '  Venus  and  the  Wandering  Troubadour,'  in 
our  court  theater.  There,  after  you  have  gazed 
at  our  dances,  the  tables  will  be  brought  in  and 
I  and  my  nymphs  will  descend  from  the  stage  to 
permit  you  gallants  to  drink  our  health  at  our  banquet, 
when  we  hope  the  evening  will  be  to  your  liking.  Mon- 
sieur le  Comte  de  Vivans,  as  representative  of  your 
great  master,  Louis  XIV.,  his  most  Christian  majesty 
of  France,  will  you  do  me  the  honor  to  escort  me?  " 

Immediately  to  the  strains  of  sweet  music  from  the 
grand  orchestra,  she  leaves  the  throne  room  for  the 
theater,  De  Vivians  gallantly  striding  beside  her. 

In  careful  precedence  of  rank,  the  assembled  ladies 
and  gentlemen  file  after  her.  £ 

As  this  takes  place,  a  court  official  touches  Villiers 
on  the  arm,  and  murmurs:  "  Her  highness  has  com- 
manded your  attendance  upon  the  stage,  Sieur  Trou- 
badour," and  shows  him  the  way  behind  the  wings  of 
the  court  theater,  which,  after  the  manner  of  that  day, 
has  but  little  scenery,  only  enough  to  indicate  a  lovely 
rustic  scene  with  high  Olympus  in  the  background, 
upon  a  stage  that  slopes  quite  rapidly  from  its  rear  to- 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  220 

ward  its  footlights,  though  these  are  hidden,  as  the 
curtain  now  is  down. 

The  whole  is  lighted  by  wax  tapers  in  a  hundred 
candelabra.  The  heat  from  these  would  be  excessive, 
but  several  windows  open  at  the  rear  upon  the  ducal 
gardens.  Taking  a  peep  through  one  of  those  the 
captain's  heart  beats  high;  he  thinks  he  perceives  in 
the  gloom  signs  of  moving  men  and  the  gleam  of  a 
bayonet,  though  the  men  are  very  silent  and  the 
bayonet  gleams  but  once. 

At  the  front  of  the  house  he  hears  the  audience  enter- 
ing, and  a  moment  later  the  strains  of  an  opening  over- 
ture come  floating  in  behind  the  curtain  from  the  royal 
orchestra. 

The  stage  is  filled  with  a  crowd  of  aristocratic  shep- 
herds, a  bevy  of  gentle  nymphs,  with  two  or  three  gods 
and  goddesses  thrown  in.  These  are  chatting  with  that 
peculiar  envy  which  seems  to  always  sway,  behind  the 
footlights,  both  amateur  and  professional. 

"  Sapristi,"  says  a  gentleman  habited  as  a  shepherd, 
"  if  the  Baron  di  Rivoli,  who  plays  the  god  Mercury, 
puts  so  much  white  paint  upon  his  face,  the  audience 
will  indeed  think  him  supernatural." 

"  Violetta,"  whispers  a  nymph  of  extremely  short 
skirts,  "  have  I  rouge  enough  upon  my  lips?  " 

"  You  had  enough,"  whispers  Violetta,  roguishly, 
"  until  that  handsome  Jupiter  kissed  you  behind  the 
scenes." 

"Ah,  then  you  had  better  put  on  more  also,"  retorts 
the  kissed  one,  "  or  else  your  French  captain,  who  is 
sitting  in  the  audience,  may  think  you  not  as  beau- 
tiful as  you'd  like." 

During  this  time  Villiers,  though  he  uses  his  eyes 
very  well,  catches  no  sight  of  his  divinity,  neither  of 


236  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

pretty  Metia,  and  wonders  at  it,  for  Lucia  is  to  trip  in 
the  minuet  and  Metia  is  to  dance  the  polka  of  Hun- 
gary. 

Just  here  Bianca,  robed  as  Juno,  comes  upon  the 
stage  in  regal  loveliness,  a  flush  of  triumph  on  her 
spirituelle  face.  To  Tessa  Pasquale,  she  orders  haugh- 
tily :  "  Ballet  woman,  the  Princess  will  soon  be  here, 
so  quick,  get  your  procession  ready,''  and  passes  su- 
perciliously on. 

"  Sapristi"  murmurs  Giacomo  to  his  sister,  "  what  a 
magnificent  figure  to  head  a  march  of  Amazons,  though 
slightly  passe  for  regular  training." 

"  Diavolo,  she  would  be  superb,"  mutters  Tessa. 
"  How  I'd  like  to  have  Madame  Haughty  under  my 
thumb !  I'd  soon  make  her  languid  joints  as  supple  as 
a  contortionist's.  I'd  make  her  proud  limbs — 

But  here  a  hush  falls  upon  the  company.  The  Prin- 
cess of  Mirandola  is  standing  by  the  abashed  ballet- 
mistress  laughing  at  her  words.  Glancing  at  Bianca's 
imperious  beauty,  she  giggles  as  if  a  very  roguish  idea 
had  struck  her  mischievous  brain. 

Maria  has  replaced  her  jeweled  corsage  and  long 
court  train  of  regal  purple  velvet  by  a  white  gossamer 
floating  thing,  which  permits  each  line  of  her  lithe, 
graceful  figure  to  show  in  willowy  loveliness.  Its 
spangled  train  she  has  gathered  over  one  of  her  white 
arms.  For  the  artful  minx  knows  that  she  is  more 
graceful,  lightly  robed  than  in  stiff  and  courtly 
stomacher. 

Her  eyes  blaze  as  she  whispers  into  Villiers's  ear: 
"  Sweet  troubadour,  here's  where  you  kneel  at  my  feet 
and  look  your  love."  She  sinks  into  the  throne  of 
Venus,  which  occupies  the  center  of  the  stage,  but  is 


THE  FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  23! 

almost  at  the  rear  of  it.  "  Here  take  your  pose  that 
you  may  know  it  at  proper  time." 

And  he,  obeying  her,  she  whispers:  "  You  have  re- 
pented. Dieu  merci,  I  can  see  it  by  your  eyes."  For 
despite  himself  at  near  sight  of  her  loveliness,  Vil- 
liers's  eyes  have  lighted  up,  as  would  any  man's;  for 
her  perfumed  hair  is  trailing  over  his  cheek  and  min- 
gling with  his  locks,  and  he  can  feel  her  heart  throb- 
bing against  his  shoulder. 

"  You  have  only  to  sit  and  look  at  me  while  my 
ladies  and  courtiers  dance,  and  at  my  signal  and  to  my 
guitar  you  will  sing  as  if  you  loved  me,"  she  whispers. 
Then  she  claps  her  hands,  and,  raising  her  voice,  de- 
mands: "  Master  of  the  stage,  is  all  prepared?" 

"  Yes,  your  Highness,"  answers  that  official,  bow- 
ing till  she  can  see  the  back  of  his  periwig. 

Attended  by  her  troubadour,  she  sweeps  from  the 
stage  and  orders  that  the  spectacle  begin.  A  moment 
after  nymphs  and  satyrs,  and  shepherds  and  shep- 
herdesses having  proper  poses  and  groupings,  the 
hammer  taps  and  the  curtain  rises. 

From  behind  the  scenes  the  troubadour  gazes 
u^on  his  enemies  of  the  French  garrison  mixed  with 
court  ladies  and  officials  of  the  duke,  as  mid  crash  of 
orchestra  the  ballet  of  "  Venus  and  the  Troubadour  " 
begins. 

It  opens  with  a  march  of  shepherds  bearing  fruits 
and  flowers,  singing  the  glories  of  Mount  Ida.  Next 
comes  the  royal  entry. 

"Attend  me,  sir,"  the  princess  whispers  to  Villiers, 
"  a  lit  fie  at  my  right  hand  following  my  train." 

Th'/r;  to  the  march  of  Pasquale  the  procession 
of  Venus  enters  upon  the  stage,  headed  by  four  royal 
trumpeters  clad  in  scarlet  huntsmen's  coats;  next  come 


2J2  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

a  bevy  of  nymphs  strewing  flowers  before  Maria  Pico, 
who  enters  as  Venus,  her  gauzy  train  spangled  all  o'er 
with  gold,  which  floats  to  royal  length  behind  her,  the 
same  being  supported  by  four  roguish  little  boys  as 
Cupids,  clothed  only  in  fleshings,  and  having  silvered 
wings  upon  their  shoulders  and  bows  and  arrows  in 
their  hands. 

Behind  her  walks  the  troubadour,  carrying  her 
guitar.  Then  come  the  gods  and  goddesses  of  high 
Olympus,  all  properly  and  discreetly  mated,  husband 
and  wife,  a  strapping  nobleman  as  Jupiter,  with  the 
stately  marchesa,  whose  superb  figure  gives  a  majesty 
to  Juno  leading  them,  though  Vulcan  bringing  up  the 
rear  and  striding  alone,  his  hammer  over  his  shoulder, 
is  looking  jealously  at  the  troubadour. 

Four  maidens  robed  as  Hebes,  bearing  wine  in 
golden  goblets  for  the  princess's  refreshment  while  she 
is  on  the  stage,  follow  after. 

The  princess  and  attendants,  after  marching  twice 
round  the  scene,  take  their  appointed  places,  Venus 
sitting  on  the  throne  and  giving  the  troubadour  a  sign 
to  throw  himself  at  her  little  feet  that  are  covered  with 
pearl  embroidered  satin  slippers. 

She  waves  her  hand  and  the  dances  begin.  A  bevy 
of  wood  nymphs  flit  o'er  the  stage.  This  is  followed  by 
a  sarabande  tripped  by  two  maids  of  honor,  the  'adies 
Floretta  and  Giulia,  whose  fair  forms  float  in  this 
graceful  dance  to  the  rhythm  of  softly  played  lutes  and 
hautboys. 

Then  takes  place  the  Minuet  de  la  Cour,  with  six 
noble  demoiselles  in  robes  of  brocade,  and  six  gentle- 
men pages  in  slashed  velvet  doublets  and  hose  of  violet 
silk,  who  tread  the  courtly  measures  to  the  melodies  of 
LulJi, 


THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  233 

In  it  for  the  first  time  this  night  Villiers  sees  his 
sweetheart  and  betrothed.  In  simple  white  satin,  above 
which  her  shoulders  and  bosom  gleam  like  polished 
marble,  and  with  a  face  as  white  as  marble  also,  the 
Lady  Lucia  treads  the  measures  with  a  courtly  grace. 
Her  eyes  seem  gems  set  in  alabaster,  but  their  gleams 
at  times  seem  to  be  veiled  with  tears. 

"  Hang  it,"  thinks  her  sweetheart,  "  the  music  has 
got  into  her  emotional  soul."  For  his  sweetheart's  face 
as  she  sees  him  reclining  at  the  princess's  feet  has 
sometimes  a  sorrow,  sometimes  an  agony  upon  it. 

"  Pardic,  my  Lucia's  satin  slippers  must  be  teasing 
her,  her  face  seems  so  unhappy.  Tis  strange  she 
pinches  them,  her  feet  are  like  Cinderella's,"  giggles 
Maria  to  her  troubadour. 

But  Villiers  snarls  to  himself:  "  By  heaven,  some 
one  has  been  cruel  to  my  darling.  If  it  is  Bianca,  when 
this  affair  is  over — ,"  and  watches  his  divinity,  little 
thinking  it  is  the  wrong  he  has  done  her  that  is  break- 
ing her  tender  heart.  But  the  dance  being  ended,  with 
one  reproachful  glance  she  glides  from  the  stage. 

The  applause  at  this  divertisement  has  scarcely 
ceased,  when  Maria  gives  her  signal.  After  tuning  her 
guitar,  Villiers  sinks  upon  one  knee  and  presents  it  to 
the  royal  lady,  and  to  the  princess's  accompaniment 
sings  his  first  amorous  song,  some  wild  Tuscan  coup- 
lets in  appoggiaturas,  trills,  and  cadences.  Happy  in 
the  voice  of  his  youth,  fired  by  the  music  of  the  soft 
cadenzas,  despite  himself,  Sydney  looks  love  at  Maria, 
and  her  eyes  answer  him. 

As  his  last  note  strikes  the  air  there  are  great  bravas 
and  hand  clappings,  even  from  the  ladies  and  gentle- 
men on  the  stage.  Villiers  thinks  they  must  be  for 


234  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

la  princessa's  guitar  playing.  All  courtiers  applaud  a 
royal  artist. 

But  Venus  herself  taps  him  with  her  fan,  leading  the 
applause,  which  comes  echoed  back  from  the  audi- 
ence. Bending  to  him,  she  places  her  white  hand 
upon  his  shoulder  and  whispers :  "  Bravo,  my  sweet 
troubadour  and  shepherd  boy  combined.  Sing  again, 
and  let  your  dear  eyes  look  as  they  did  at  me  before." 

So  the  Englishman  once  more  lets  loose  his  voice  in 
melody,  and,  feeling  proud  of  his  returning  powers, 
makes  greater  hit  than  before  with  the  princess,  whose 
blue  eyes  close  in  ecstasy  and  grow  soft  with  thought 
of  reciprocated  passion. 

But  even  as  she  gazes  at  him,  Villiers  notices  that 
Maria's  eyes  change  from  soft  to  threatening.  They 
are  not  upon  him  now,  but  on  the  trembling  Lady 
Metia,  who  has  entered  modestly  to  dance  the  polka  of 
Hungary  before  her  royal  mistress. 

At  first  he  guesses  la  princessa  must  be  jealous  of 
the  beauty  of  her  maid  of  honor,  for  agitation  seems  to 
lend  new  loveliness  to  the  girl  as  she  stands  posed  to 
make  her  bounds,  the  orchestra  playing  the  prelude 
to  her  dance. 

For  one  moment  he  thinks  the  maid  is  o'erpowered 
by  bashful  modesty;  that  being  exposed  in  the  light 
gauzes  of  a  sylph  to  the  gazes  of  a  crowd  have  made 
the  gentle  figurante  so  bashful  that  her  exhibition  is  a 
torment;  for  Metia  has  been  robed  for  this  performance 
by  the  costumer  of  the  ducal  theater,  and  he  has  dis- 
played her  beauties  with  an  artist's  hand — yet  liberally. 

Her  neck  and  bosom  of  dazzling  white  rise  over  a 
corsage  of  silver  gauzes  as  if  floating  in  a  cloud,  from 
which  her  white  arms,  bare  to  her  dimpled  shoulders, 
wave  to  the  rhythm  of  th«  music.  From  lithe  waist  to 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  235 

graceful  knees  her  skirts  of  tulle  of  varying  colors 
make  a  rainbow,  from  out  of  which  escape  limbs 
superb  in  proportion,  yet  graceful  as  a  fawn's,  encased 
in  stockings  of  transparent  web.  Upon  her  little  feet 
are  slippers  of  the  dance  sandaled  by  satin  ribbons 
high  up  upon  her  delicate  ankles. 

But  Metia's  face  now  startles  the  gazing  troubadour, 
for  he  sees  it  is  no  fright  of  stage,  but  some  o'erpower- 
ing  terror  of  life,  perchance  even  death,  that  makes  the 
girl  dance  as  if  the  sword  of  Damocles  were  hanging 
over  her  fair  tresses. 

Her  face  grows  agonized;  her  beautiful  eyes  are 
raised  as  if  in  appeal  to  heaven.  At  each  circle  of  the 
polka,  even  as  she  tosses  her  dazzling  limbs  in  air,  her 
imploring  glances  seek  the  royal  face,  whose  threaten- 
ing stare  seems  to  drive  the  flying  Metia  to  despairing 
efforts.  Her  feet  fly  faster  and  faster,  the  flesh  tints  of 
her  graceful  limbs  flashing  under  the  wax  lights  of  the 
scene,  until  as  if  hoping  by  the  vigor  and  elan  of  her 
dance  and  her  success  upon  the  stage  to  win  the  royal 
favor,  she  sinks  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  her  royal  mis- 
tress, whose  eyes  look  upon  her  with  the  fixed  cold 
stare  of  a  Medusa,  and  seem  to  have  a  Medusa  effect 
upon  the  trembling  figurante. 

"  You  know  your  fate  to-morrow,"  whispers  the 
princess  with  an  icy  menace. 

Even  as  the  applause  breaks  forth  from  the  audi- 
ence, Metia  rises,  and,  with  a  helpless  sigh,  staggers 
off  the  scene,  and,  though  they  demand  her,  makes  no 
reappearance.  A  moment  more  and  Zambo,  the  court 
fool,  comes  forth  to  do  his  comic  punchinello  dance 
with  his  unfortunate  wife,  pert  little  Gianetta  de  Per- 
siani,  a  maid  of  honor.  At  her  imploring  appeals, 
made  soubrette  fashion,  for  the  clown's  love,  which  are 


236  THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

resisted  haughtily  by  the  acrobatic  Zambo,  who  throws 
a  back  somersault  each  time  she  falls  upon  her  knees 
before  him,  the  audience  bursts  into  guffaws.  Then 
the  fixed  unforgiving  glance  of  la  princessa,  that  has 
followed  the  retiring  Metia,  gives  way  to  roguish 
merriment.  She  laughs :  "  Bravo,  Zambo !  Idiot 
clown,  do  somersaults  again!"  Which  the  court  fool 
does  until  the  audience  throw  him  money,  for  he  is  not 
of  noble  birth,  and  gathers  up  their  douceurs  eagerly. 

The  next  instant  there  is  a  fandango  of  shepherds  and 
shepherdesses,  and  as  this  finishes  Venus  descends 
from  her  throne  to  be  escorted  in  triumph  from  the 
stage;  the  curtain  falling  on  her  exit. 

Turning  cruel  eyes  about,  she  commands:  "  Where 
is  Metia?" 

But  her  maid  of  honor  answers  not  the  summons. 

"  However,  it  does  not  matter  much,"  she  remarks. 
"  Marchesa,  you  have  my  orders  as  to  the  lady." 

"  Yes,  your  Highness,"  answers  the  mistress  of  the 
maids,  making  obeisance. 

Suddenly  the  little  witch  of  varying  impulses  says  af- 
fably :  "  The  affair,  I  think,  pleased  our  guests.  Mas- 
ter of  the  stage,  your  scene  was  beautiful.  Your  lights 
unexceptionable.  You  and  your  men  shall  partake  of 
wine  and  refreshments  in  the  buttery.  It  is  already 
ordered,  you  can  retire  to  it." 

Then  to  the  troubadour  she  speaks:  "  Thanks,  Sieur 
Montaldo,  for  the  glories  of  your  voice.  You  will  do 
me  the  favor  of  singing  at  the  royal  banquet  the  coup- 
lets of  Filicaria." 

"  Your  Highness's  commands  are  my  law,"  answers 
Villiers,  bowing  to  the  stage. 

"  Thank  God,"  she  whispers  to  him. 

Then  all  the  scene  men  having  left  the  stage,  she 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  237 

commands  the  ladies  and  the  company  that  they  make 
ready  for  the  banquet. 

Les  coulisses  are  soon  deserted,  though  the  Mar- 
chesa  di  Monteferrato  is  still  in  attendance.  "  Remain 
here,  Bianca,  and  see  we  are  not  interrupted,"  Maria  di- 
rects, and  leads  Villiers  to  the  rear  of  the  stage. 

Secluded  by  the  set  piece  of  Mount  Ida,  she  whispers 
to  him:  "  Now,  Dicu  nierci,  I  have  won  in  Cupid's 
war.  Give  me  the  miniature  of  my  rival." 

To  surrender  anyone  to  her  vengeance,  after  he  has 
seen  the  terror  of  the  lovely  Metia,  would  be  a  dastard 
act.  Should  the  princess  get  one  glance  of  Lucia's  face 
Villiers  knows  his  adored  will  be  in  danger. 

He  says  haughtily :  "  Any  other  request,  your 
Highness,  but  I  pray  you  not  that  one." 

"  You  shan't  refuse  me !  "  she  cries  petulantly.  "  I'll 
have  no  half-love,  Signer  Troubadour.  I  want  all 
your  heart.  Give  me  each  throb  and  I'll  make  you 
happier  than  you  ever  dreamt  you'd  be.  Besides,  the 
rank,"  her  voice  is  very  low  now,  "  Eugene  must  give 
you  for  this  affair,  I'll  make  you  a  princess's  consort. 
That  portrait!  give  it  to  me  that  I  may  know  that  none 
stand  between  my  heart  and  yours,"  she  begs  him, 
with  soft  pleading  words. 

But  he  says:    "Any  other  favor,  save  that." 

"  You  must!  You  shall!  You're  mine,  and  I  will 
have  it." 

"  Never!  " 

"  Beware !  "  A  little  threatening  is  coming  into  the 
despot's  pleading  tone.  "  Give  me  that  accursed  face, 
that  I  may  grind  it  under  my  heel." 

"  That  you  shall  never  do." 

"  You  defy  me?  " 

(<  No,  your  Highness ;  but  I  refuse  you." 


238  THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

"Think!  More  than  I  have  said  may  hang  upon 
your  words."  Her  eyes  are  steely  now.  "  It  is  your 
last  chance.  Remember,  Maria  Pico  pleads  but  once! 
Think!  Think!" 

"  Of  what?  " 

"  Of  those  men  out  there!  " 

"  Good  God !  " 

She  points  through  the  open  windows,  and  Villiers, 
following  her  hand,  knows  that  a  portion  of  the  regi- 
ment of  Staremberg  are  already  concealed  in  the 
shrubberies  of  the  gardens,  he  sees  the  bushes  swayed 
by  moving  men.  "  Don't  drive  me  to  madness.  Those 
men  cut  off  and  surprised  are  dead  men.  There  is  a 
French  gallant  who  can  be  kind  to  me  if  you  are  not. 
One  word  to  De  Vivans  and  those  men  die." 

"  Pish,  you  dare  not.  Prince  Eugene  would  never 
forgive." 

"  Prince  Eugene  would  never  know,  save  that  his 
plan  had  failed,  and  that  his  men  were  massacred. 
Would  you  be  alive  to  tell  him?  "  she  says  in  awful  jeer, 
then  suddenly  gasps,  tremblingly  :  "  No,  no !  Of  course, 
I  meant  it  not !  " 

For  at  the  cool  logic  of  this  devilish  insinuation  the 
troubadour's  jeweled  stiletto  flashes  over  her.  With 
one  strong  hand  he  has  seized  her  white  throat,  and 
holds  Maria  helpless. 

"  Would  you  poniard  me,"  she  gasps,  her  face  pale 
as  the  death  that  threatens  it. 

"  Yes — to  save  those  men."  His  tone  proclaims  her 
life  hangs  on  a  thread. 

"  That  would  not  save  them,"  she  falters,  for  his  hand 
is  very  firm  upon  her.  "  The  outcry  of  my  death  would 
come  too  soon.  Surprised  before  they  have  force 
enough,  th?  men  already  in  the  garden  are  dead  men. 


tHE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUfc.  239 

Besides,  you  didn't  think  for  slighted  love  I'd — I'd  be 
such  a  fiend,  my  Sydney?  " 

"  Still,  swear  to  be  true  to  our  cause  by  even  the  cross 
of  Christ,"  mutters  the  man,  "  or  you  die." 

"  Of  course.  I'll  swear  by — by  anything  you  wish, 
even  the  crucifix ! "  For  he  has  forced  the  cross 
of  his  poniard  to  her  lips.  "  Besides,  my — my  love  for 
you  shall  not  be  so  exigent.  Why  should  I  be  jealous 
of  a  portrait  ? "  she  prattles,  attempting  a  smile,  for 
at  her  oath  he  has  released  her.  "  It  is  that  jade,  Metia, 
she  who  slandered  me  about  the  French  commandant's 
wooing.  But  that  traitoress  knows  her  fate.  I'll  teach 
her  to  malign  me  to  the  man  I  love  most  in  all  this 
world.  Come,  sing  at  my  banquet,  dear  one,  till  we  sur- 
prise De  Vivans."  She  presses  hot  lips  to  his  face 
which  is  turned  from  her.  "  My  absence  will  be  noted. 
Join  me  after  decent  interval,  and  after  the  banquet, 
when  you  are  in  my  arms,  I'll  woo  that  picture  from 
you." 

"  You  need  not  woo  my  picture  from  him,  your 
Highness,"  says  a  voice  so  sadly  sweet,  that  it  makes 
Villiers  start  and  tremble,  and  his  face  grow  agonized. 

"  My  God!    Lucia!  "  he  gasps. 

For  coming  from  behind  side  scene,  where  she  had 
sat  in  silent  misery,  is  the  fair  form  of  the  woman  he 
loves.  She  now  stands  beside  her  royal  mistress,  and 
says  to  him :  "  My  picture,  sir.  Thou  art  not  worthy 
to  wear  it.  I'll  keep  it  till  I  find  a  truer  heart  than 
thine  to  let  it  rest  upon." 

"  Diavolo!  This  is  the  woman  you  love!"  screams 
the  princess.  "  O  mother  of  God,  I  have  the  right  one 
now!  Your  mistress!  " 

"  By  heaven,  no." 

"  The  Lady  Lucia  brought  to  my  court  to  jeer  me !  " 


340  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

and  before  Villiers,  who  has  been  crushed  by  this  hor- 
rible denouement,  has  presence  of  mind  enough  to 
drive  his  poniard  into  her  false  heart,  Maria  Pico  has, 
with  quick  steps,  fled  to  the  door  leading  from  the  stage. 

Here,  turning  blazing  eyes  upon  her  victim,  she  says, 
hoarsely  and  with  strange  significance:  "  But  you  are 
still  my  troubadour !  I  shall  take  measures  that  you  do 
not  leave  my  palace  until  you  sing  for  me  at  my  ban- 
quet !  "  The  next  second,  followed  by  Bianca,  whose 
face  is  lighted  by  the  joys  of  Satan,  the  princess  has 
stepped  from  behind  the  scenes  and  into  the  halls  of  the 
revellers. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

TRAPPED   AT  THE  BANQUET. 

Quick  as  thought  Villiers  steps  to  the  open  window 
to  give  the  signal  to  the  troops  in  the  garden.  The  last 
glance  of  Maria's  face  has  shown  him  the  eyes  of  a 
serpent,  but  looking  cautiously  out,  the  spy  sees  with 
a  sigh  there  are  not  yet  enough  men  to  do  the  work; 
they  have  to  be  brought  in  so  slowly  and  carefully  to 
avoid  alarming  the  French  troops  at  the  nearby  bas- 
tion. 

"My  picture,  please!"  The  soft  voice  of  Lucia 
Vesey  is  commanding. 

"  My  heaven,  you  don't  understand." 
"  Perhaps  not  all,  but  I  guess  enough.    Good-by." 
She  would  go  from  him,  for  he  has  silently  handed 
her  the  miniature,  but  suddenly  his  hand  is  on  her  arm: 
"  You  don't  know  to  what  danger  you  are  going,"  he 
says,  hastily.     "  There  are  daggers  in  Italian  courts. 
Her  eyes  meant  murder  to  some  one.     By  heaven,  it 
shall  not  be  you." 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  241 

"  Unhand  me,  sir." 

"  I've  promised  your  father  to  guard  you." 

"  How  have  you  done  it?  "  she  sighs.  "  Broken  my 
heart!" 

"  Still  I'll  guard  you.  Your  father's  words,  you 
read  them,  gave  me  authority  over  you.  Whether  you 
love  me  or  love  me  not,  still  I  must  save  you  from  a 
woman  who  will  stop  not  even  at  death.  Wait  here  till 
I  can  save  you,  and  save  the  men  out  in  that  garden 
whom  I  have  perhaps  murdered." 

There  is  an  agony  in  his  voice.  He  is  about  to  run 
out  to  follow  Maria,  to  implore  her  to  forgive  him,  to 
make  dastard  of  himself  to  save  the  brave  men  who  will 
be  cut  off  if  Maria  opens  her  lips  to  De  Vivans.  But 
now  a  low  despairing  sigh  floats  to  them  from  behind 
a  little  pile  of  unused  stage  paraphernalia. 

"Some  one  overheard!"  falters  Lucia. 

"  Then  he  must  not  live  to  take  his  news  to  the 
French  commander,"  mutters  Villiers. 

Stiletto  in  hand,  he  steps  cautiously  toward  the 
sound  that  startled  them.  Bending  over,  he  looks  be- 
hind the  scenery.  The  figure  of  a  despairing  Niobe 
greets  his  eyes.  It  is  the  Lady  Metia.  The  girl  has 
thrown  herself  upon  her  face.  Beneath  the  blaze  of 
wax  lights  her  sculptured  limbs  look  marble,  being  ex- 
tended in  a  kind  of  shuddering  abandon,  as  if  hope 
had  left  her. 

At  his  step  she  starts  up,  and  would  sweep  past  him, 
but  he  stops  her.  Choking  down  a  sigh  and  wiping 
away  a  tear,  she  says,  in  haughty  reproach :  "  I  pray 
you  leave  me,  signore.  You  have  already  done  me 
hurt  enough  with  my  mistress." 

"You  overheard?"  he  whispers. 

"  Yes,  but  I  was  told  of  my  fate  before  I  danced. 


24*  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

La  princessa  accuses  me  of  having  revealed  her  amour 
with  the  French  commandant  to  you.  For  that  I  have 
been  condemned." 

"  To  what?  "  asks  Villiers. 

But  a  shudder  only  answers  him. 

"  No,  don't  tell  me,"  whispers  Sydney,  for  he  re- 
members the  cruel  threat  Maria  had  made  that  after- 
noon. 

"  It  is  not  for  my  tongue  I  am  to  be  punished,"  re- 
marks the  girl  bitterly,  "  but  because  my  royal  lady 
thinks  you  have  turned  an  amorous  eye  upon  me." 

"Oh,  heaven!  Two  mistresses,  and  you  my  be- 
trothed! "  moans  Lucia,  and  sinks  down  upon  a  stage 
bench.  But  Villiers,  after  one  heartbroken  glance,  turns 
his  attention  to  the  other. 

"  By  heaven,  no  word  of  mine,  Lady  Metia,  has 
brought  you  to  this  pass,"  he  mutters,  hoarsely. 

"  That  doesn't  matter  to  a  jealous  mind  like  hers.  It 
is  enough  that  she  suspects.  For  that  I  must  suffer, 
you  and  five  hundred  brave  men  must  die,"  falters 
Metia,  with  a  despairing  sigh. 

"  Do  you  believe  she  dare  do  this  fiendish  thing,  after 
making  proffer  to  Prince  Eugene?" 

"  I  know  she  will!  You  saw  her  eyes  as  she  left 
you.  To-morrow  she  may  be  sorry,  that  is  her  way, 
fand  cry  over  your  dead  body.  But  to-night  Maria  will 
betray  you,  by  every  drop  of  her  wayward  blood." 

"  Then,"  says  the  Englishman,  shortly,  "  there  is  but 
one  chance  for  you,  my  girl,  to  escape  your  punish- 
ment, for  me  to  escape  my  doom,  for  you  to  save  the 
lives  of  those  brave  men  she  would  betray  in 
yonder  garden.  Have  you  the  courage  to  do  my  bid- 
ding? " 

"  Try  me!  "  whispers  Metia.    "  Try  me!  " 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  243 

"  Then  mark  me.  You  are  not  expected  at  the  ban- 
quet? " 

At  this  the  girl  gives  a  little  shuddering  jeer,  and 
mutters:  "  No,  I  am  to  be  imprisoned.  Even  now  the 
princess's  tire  women  are  looking  for  me  to  lock  me 
tightly  up  in  a  garret  cell." 

"  Then,  while  you  are  free,  do  this  for  yourself  and 
humanity.  Slip  out — you  know  the  way,  by  the  private 
staircase  that  leads  to  my  apartments — through  it  into 
the  garden.  There  ask  the  first  German  soldier  that 
you  meet  to  show  you  immediately  to  Colonel  Paul 
Diak.  Give  him  the  words  of  the  night, 'England  and 
Austria,'  so  that  he  may  believe  you.  Tell  him  as  he 
hopes  to  see  his  friend  Villiers  alive,  he  must  immedi- 
ately put  a  strong  detachment  into  this  theater  quietly 
by  these  windows.  The  garden  ladders  are  long 
enough  for  this  low  story.  Also  he  must  send  force 
enough  to  secure  the  main  stairway  of  the  palace,  and 
cut  off  the  retreat  of  the  French  officers.  Show  Diak 
the  private  entrance  by  which  I  entered.  He  must 
introduce  the  second  detachment  that  way." 

"  Why  not  by  the  nearer  doors  of  the  pavilion  ?  " 
asks  the  girl,  by  her  speech  showing  her  quick  mind 
has  grasped  the  military  situation. 

"  Because,"  answers  Villiers,  "  if  your  royal  mistress 
means  treachery,  those  pavilion  doors  will  be  already 
closed  and  barred,  though  she  promised  they  would  be 
open.  Now  quick,  before  la  marchesa  or  the  head 
chamber  woman  see  you." 

With  resolve  in  her  eyes,  Metia  is  flying  toward  the 
stage  entrance,  but  suddenly  pauses  and  falters :  "  Too 
late!  "  and  Villiers  utters  a  despairing  groan,  for  stand- 
ing before  the  girl  upon  whose  message  depend  so 
many  lives  are  four  women  in  the  uniform  of  the  prim 


244  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

cess's  chamber.  One  of  them  says,  in  sorrowful  com- 
mand: "  Lady  Metia,  we  have  orders  for  you." 

A  second  after,  two  women  clasp  the  girl's  white 
hands  in  theirs  and  lead  her,  shuddering,  away. 

"  By  heaven,  those  men  in  the  garden  are  murdered 
because  I  wouldn't  be  the  princess's  paramour,"  shud- 
ders Villiers,  turning  to  spring  from  the  window. 
What's  a  broken  leg  or  even  death  if  he  with  his  dying 
breath  can  give  his  comrades  warning? 

He  is  preparing  for  his  desperate  leap,  when  there 
is  a  light  touch  upon  his  shoulder  and  a  sweet  voice 
whispers  to  him:  "  I'll  take  the  message.  I  know  the 
palace  well.  I've  seen  the  private  entrance  to  the  gar- 
dens." 

"  God  bless  you!    For  my  sake?  " 

"  Not  for  yours!  My  father  may  be  with  those  be- 
trayed men  within  the  gardens.  Dost  think  I'll  stand 
here  and  let  him  die!  "  answers  Lucia,  her  eyes  ablaze. 

"Then  quick!  You  heard  the  password  to  give  to 
the  German  soldier, '  England  and  Austria.'  If  you  suc- 
ceed in  delivering  your  message  and  are  willing  to  do  me 
another  service,  pass  unobserved  into  the  upper  gallery 
of  the  theater  and  sing  for  me  one  high  note,  and  it 
may  save  my  life." 

Thinking  this  may  be  the  last  of  her,  he  would  take 
her  in  his  arms,  but  she  breaks  shudderingly  from 
him,  and  flies  with  quick  step  away,  leaving  him  alone 
upon  the  deserted  stage,  whose  lights  are  still  burning 
bravely,  the  scenic  attendants  being  all  now  busy  in  the 
princess's  kitchen  with  their  royal  mistress's  drink  and 
food. 

Lingering  here  for  some  minutes,  all  the  time  he 
dare,  Villiers  approaches  the  stage  entrance,  and,  pass- 
ing out,  coolly  locks  the  (Joor  and  pockets  the  key. 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  245 

but  starts  while  doing  so,  for  he  sees  a  few  French  offi- 
cers loitering  near,  and  the  glance  a  captain  gives  a 
lieutenant  indicates  they  have  an  eye  upon  him. 

A  bowing  lackey  says:  "  Her  highness,  the  Princess 
of  Mirandola,  commands  her  troubadour,  the  Sieur 
Montaldo's,  attendance  at  her  banquet." 

"  I  am  at  her  highness's  orders,"  mutters  Sydney, 
trying  to  keep  his  nerves  well  controlled,  for  he  knows 
that  if  this  affair  goes  badly,  within  the  hour  he  will  be 
swinging  from  the  battlements. 

He  nonchalantly  strolls  toward  the  main  entrance  of 
the  theater.  Casting  one  glance  down  a  side  stairway 
toward  the  garden  door  of  the  pavilion,  he  knows  he  is 
betrayed;  for  this  is  being  barricaded  quietly,  and  al- 
ready a  guard,  made  up  hastily  of  sentries  gathered 
from  other  parts  of  the  palace,  bar  all  entrance  from 
the  garden. 

"  By  heaven,  that  demon  has  told  the  French  com- 
mandant," he  thinks.  "  She  is  the  murderess  of  those 
brave  men  already  in  the  ducal  gardens,  who,  lured 
there  by  her  diplomacy,  will  now  be  cut  off  and  put  to 
the  sword.  Killed  because  her  miserable  vanity  has 
received  a  rebuff!  "  he  shudders,  then  cogitates  sav- 
agely :  "  But  I,  who  have  brought  these  poor  devils 
to  their  strait,  will  save  them  or  die  with  them." 

With  this  resolve  he  enters  the  little  theater.  In 
fact,  he  apparently  has  no  choice  in  this  matter,  for 
great  care  seems  to  be  taken  that  the  troubadour  slips 
not  away.  Three  French  officers  are  sauntering  in 
front  of  him.  Four  more  stout  lieutenants  are  loung- 
ing behind  him,  all  of  their  eyes  suspiciously  upon  him. 

Of  this  he  appears  to  take  no  notice.  This  may  be 
but  an  accident,  but,  in  any  event,  he  knows  the  spy 


$46  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

must  now  play  only  the  troubadour  if  he  wishes  to  save 
the  trapped  men  in  the  garden. 

In  the  theater — from  whose  pit  the  chairs  have  been 
removed — two  long  tables  are  spread.  Around  these 
the  French  officers  are  seated.  The  lackeys  are  al- 
ready bearing  away  the  first  courses  of  the  ban- 
quet. 

At  the  head  of  the  first  is  seated  as  hostess  the  Prin- 
cess Maria  Pico,  looking  still  the  queen  of  love  as  she 
did  upon  the  stage. 

At  her  right  hand,  the  post  of  honor,  is  Colonel  le 
Comte  de  Vivans;  below  him,  according  to  military 
precedent,  are  ranged  the  principal  officers  of  the  gar- 
rison. Between  each  of  these  officers  is  placed  a  court 
beauty,  robed  as  she  danced  in  the  ballet.  Henri  de 
Pasteur,  colonel  of  the  regiment  of  Picardy,  is  seated 
at  its  foot.  This  table  is  nearest  the  stage,  the  orches- 
tra having  been  removed  to  the  gallery,  in  which  they 
are  now  discoursing  the  melodies  of  Lulli,  Scarlatti, 
and  Cavalli. 

At  the  second  table,  which  is  nearest  the  main  doors, 
are  the  under  officers  of  the  garrison,  the  senior 
captain  of  De  Vivans's  sitting  at  its  head,  he  being 
faced  at  its  foot  by  a  captain  of  the  regiment  of  Picardy; 
between  them  thirty  or  forty  lieutenants  and  ensigns. 

The  feast  is  going  merrily  on.  Already  the  first 
courses  have  been  devoured.  Quail  from  the  hills 
about  Mount  Cimone  are  just  being  placed  before  the 
guests,  and  champagne,  bottled  after  the  new  fashion 
with  strong  corks  that  pop  when  opened,  sparkles  as  it 
is  drunk  from  crystal  Venetian  goblets.  Flowers  have 
been  thrown  upon  the  tables,  myrtles,  laurels,  the  blos- 
soms of  orange,  pink  oleanders,  and  roses  from  the 
royal  conservatories. 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  247 

"  Come  hither,  troubadour,"  commands  the  princess. 
"  Come  and  sing  for  us." 

"  Yes,"  cries  De  Vivans,  harshly.  "  Jongleur,  come 
here.  We  want  you.  You  do  not  leave  this  banquet 
till  the  end."  There  is  a  kind  of  sneering  triumph  in 
the  colonel's  voice  that  tells  the  spy  he  is  discovered. 

"  Till  the  end,"  he  thinks.  And,  bowing  to  the  earth, 
murmurs  humbly:  "  Would  you  like  Chiabera's  song 
of  the  victories  of  the  Tuscan  galleys  over  the  pirates 
of  the  Mediterranean,  or  Filicaria's  couplet  of  Venice 
besieged  by  the  Ottomans  ?  " 

"  Tune  my  guitar  and  sing  Filicaria's  glorious  song. 
It's  got  more  love  in  it !  "  laughs  Maria,  archly. 

Sitting  down,  he  brings  the  instrument  to  proper 
pitch,  yet  notes  as  he  does  so  some  word  must  have 
been  passed  among  the  officers,  for  they  drink  but 
little,  passing  the  bottle  quietly,  and  every  now  and 
then  a  captain  or  lieutenant,  after  some  whispered 
words  from  De  Vivans,  passes  carelessly  out  of  the 
doors.  As  these  open  for  them,  Villiers  sees  a  detail 
of  the  soldiers  of  the  garrison  are  at  its  entrance — the 
jaws  of  death  are  yawning  for  the  spy. 

"  Sing  for  us,  troubadour,"  commands  the  princess. 
"  Sing,  boy,  sing!  "  Her  tone  is  haughty;  her  address 
careless. 

Villiers  has  little  hope  now.  Women  of  her  tem- 
perament seldom  slur  the  object  of  their  hate  until 
he's  helpless. 

"  I'll  sing  for  your  Highness,"  he  assents,  "  but  with 
your  permission  I  crave  a  glass  of  champagne  to  give 
my  voice  the  elan  that  it  should  possess  to  do  its  duty 
to  these,  thy  guests." 

"  Here,  drink  my  wine,"  cries  Maria;  ihe  siren 
laughs  in  his  face,  and  hands  him  the  royaJ  goblet; 


348  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

though  her  eyes  can't  help  telling  her  victim  that,  like 
the  swan's  song,  it  shall  be  his  last. 

"  As  you  sing,  troubadour,  we  will  pass  the  loving 
cup,"  remarks  Colonel  de  Vivans,  and,  picking  up  the 
great  tankard  of  Benvenuto  Cellini  filled  with  some 
gallons  of  generous  Burgundy,  he  quaffs  and  sends  the 
silver  vase  down  the  table. 

This  loving  cup  seems  to  be  some  signal.  The  ofrU 
cers,  after  drinking,  remain  standing,  and  some  stout 
captains  and  lieutenants  draw  gradually  near  their 
commander  and  the  troubadour. 

There  is  an  unholy  triumph  in  the  French  colonel's 
eyes,  for,  after  he  has  destroyed  the  men  of  Prince 
Eugene  assembling  in  the  gardens  and  seized  the  spy 
she  hates,  Maria  has  promised  him,  because  he  gives 
her  treachery  to  the  French  pardon,  she  will  again,  this 
night,  enter  his  arms  and  be  his  leman.  Now  he  only 
waits  till  the  citadel  has  sent  him  force  sufficient  to  cut 
off  and  butcher  the  hapless  regiment  of  Staremberg — 
then  he  will  strike! 

Therefore,  De  Vivans  is  playing  with  his  victim,  and 
the  royal  lady  is  playing  with  her  victim,  as  their  prey 
is  now  singing  to  them  a  sweet  song  that  he  guesses 
must  be  his  last. 

It  is  the  couplet  of  Filicaria  of  the  wars  of  Turks 
and  Venice,  and  tells  of  battle  and  of  blood,  of  love  and 
lust,  and  beautiful  women  carried  to  the  harems  of  the 
Turks,  and  warriors  dying  to  save  their  sweethearts 
from  the  infidel. 

Listening  to  this  from  the  rear  of  the  great  balconv. 
old  Pasquale  murmurs  to  himself:  "  Pest!  My  pupil  is 
not  doing  me  justice.  Hang  it,  he  slurs  a  high  note 
every  now  and  then." 

For  in  truth,  Villiers  finds  singing  with  his  heart  in 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  249 

his  mouth  is  not  so  easy  an  accomplishment.  Still  he 
goes  bravely  on,  and  begins  the  last  dread  stanza,  a 
weird  mixture  of  love  and  death. 

The  loving  cup  is  placed  before  him,  nearly  empty 
now.  About  him  are  gathering  four  strong  sub-offi- 
cers, who  bear  him  no  love  for  having  killed  their  fel- 
low the  night  before.  He  thinks  he  hears  the  distant 
roll  of  drums.  The  commandant's  hand  is  gradually 
going  nearer  to  his  sword  hilt.  The  princess's  eyes 
flame  like  fire  opals.  It  is  the  last  cadenza ! 

As  the  troubadour  reaches  the  high  closing  notes,  all 
start  astonished  at  the  marvelous  melody  that  joins 
his  voice.  For  from  the  distant  gallery  a  woman's 
tones  float  pure  as  pearls,,  brilliant  as  diamonds  in  the 
air,  in  sweet  trills  and  marvelous  appoggiaturas. 

Then  hope  makes  Villiers's  voice  a  clarion.  He 
sings  like  one  inspired,  and,  joining  the  glorious 
melody  with  the  last  high  note  floating  strong,  clear, 
and  resonant  on  his  lips,  the  troubadour,  as  he  takes 
his  ut  de  poitrine,  seizes  the  great  loving  cup  of  Ben- 
venuto  Cellini,  and  with  it  brains  De  Vivans  as  he 
stands  by  the  princess's  side. 

At  this  there  is  a  shriek  from  the  ladies.  The  ban- 
quet is  in  confusion.  The  officers  spring  toward  him. 

But  turning,  Villiers  springs  for  life  onto  the  stage. 
For  there  at  the  worst  he  can  throw  himself  through 
the  open  windows.  The  French  with  a  roar  of  rage  are 
close  behind  him.  If  he  had  a  hundred  lives  they'd 
have  them  all.  But  he  has  drawn  both  his  big  horse 
pistols  and  cries:  "Back!" 

Then  he  gasps  in  astonishment,  as  they  do  all.  For 
an  Irish  voice  is  crying:  "  Begad,  up  with  the  rag!  " 
And  the  green  curtain  flies  up  to  show  such  stage  tab- 
leau as  was  never  seen  by  affrighted  audience  before. 


250  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

Three  hundred  soldiers  of  Staremberg's  regiment 
with  muskets  primed,  cocked,  and  leveled,  tier  on  tier 
occupy  the  mount  of  High  Olympus,  facing  the  af- 
frighted banqueters. 

The  voice  of  Colonel  Diak  cries:  "Surrender, 
French,  we  have  ye!" 

The  court  beauties  have  fled  screaming  from  the 
tables,  and  are  huddled  up  at  the  back  of  the  theater. 
The  musicians  are  flying  from  the  balcony.  There  is  a 
rattle  of  musketry  outside.  The  French  sentries  are 
driven  from  the  main  doors,  and  the  soldiers  of  Eugene 
come  rushing  in  to  the  pit  of  the  theater  from  the  great 
stairway. 

Over  this  rings  the  voice  of  the  Cleopatra  of  the 
feast,  though  her  lips  tremble  pale  as  a  ghost's:  "  Cap- 
tain Villiers,  I  charge  you  as  a  man  and  a  gentleman 
to  tell  your  master,  Prince  Eugene,  I  kept  my  word 
and  gave  this  fortress  to  you." 

Turning  to  her  the  troubadour,  who  is  a  soldier  now, 
laughs  a  ghastly  laugh,  and  says:  "Ask  there  your 
paramour.  He'd  tell  how  true  you  were,  Jezebel,  but 
he's  dead." 

"  Surrender  your  swords,  gentlemen  of  France," 
cries  Diak.  "  It's  no  disgrace  when  you  haven't  even 
a  fighting  chance.  Quick,  throw  them  down  before  we 
break  your  ladies'  hearts  by  killing  you  before  their 
faces." 

After  one  quick  glance  about  him,  both  to  the  front 
and  rear,  and  seeing  they  are  sure  cut  off,  Henri  de 
Pasteur,  noting  that  four  of  his  officers  who  have  tried 
the  main  entrance  of  the  theater  are  already  bay- 
oneted, sullenly  holds  out  his  sword  to  Diak,  and  at 
his  command  the  others  throw  down  their  weapons. 

"  No,  Monsieur  le  Colonel,"  cries  the  generous  sol- 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  251 

dier  of  fortune,  "  hand  it  to  Villiers  here.    He  won  this 
night." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A   FIGHTER,  BUT  NO   MORE  A  TROUBADOUR. 

But  Sydney  has  other  work  to  do.  Something  in 
la  princessa's  eyes  makes  him  know  he  has  to  do  it 
quickly.  The  regal  lady  has  cried :  "  Room  for  the 
Princess  of  Mirandola,"  and  would  pass  through  the 
German  troops,  who  salute  her  deferentially,  for  roy- 
alty in  those  days  was  bowed  down  to. 

"  I  pray  you,  Diak,"  he  implores,  whisperingly; 
"  arrest  the  princess  at  once.  Otherwise  she  will  make 
sacrifice  of  her  maid  of  honor  who  brought  you  here 
in  time." 

"  Good  God!  poor  Vesey's  daughter.  She  said  she 
thought  her  father  was  among  us.  I  didn't  dare  tell 
her  he  was  dead,"  whispers  the  Swedish  soldier,  and 
springs  off  the  stage,  followed  by  Villiers.  Making 
his  way  to  the  princess,  he  lays  deferential  hand  upon 
the  royal  arm  before  she  reaches  the  entrance  of  the 
theater.  Bowing  to  her,  he  says:  "Your  Highness 
must  permit  me  to  conduct  you  to  your  chamber. 
There  you  must  remain  until  I  have  further  orders 
from  Prince  Eugene." 

"  You  would  dare  arrest  me  in  my  own  palace? " 
cries  Maria,  her  eyes  flashing. 

"  On  such  a  night  as  this,  most  certainly,  your  High- 
ness." 

"Ah,  'tis  your  prattling,  my  boy  poppinjay,"  she 
cries  to  Villiers,  "  which  has  brought  me  to  this  pass." 

Then,  giving  the  Englishman  a  glance  sharp  as  a 


252  THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

stiletto,  she  places  her  pretty  hand  coquettishly  upon 
Paul  Diak's  strong  arm,  and,  looking  up  into  his  face, 
murmurs:  "  Dieu  mcrci,  at  least  Eugene  is  now  repre- 
sented by  a  gentleman  of  height  sufficient  for  me  to 
consider  him  a  man."  For  De  Vivans  being  dead 
and  Villiers  lost  to  her,  the  royal  minx  is  already  look- 
ing for  another  gallant. 

To  this  Diak  laughs:  "Egad,  your  Highness,  but 
my  friend  did  a  giant's  work  here,  I  think,"  and  looks 
grimly  at  the  dead  body  of  the  French  commander. 
"  But  with  your  permission,  I  have  no  time  to  waste, 
please  come  with  me,  your  Highness." 

He  leads  Maria  to  her  apartments,  through  the  great 
halls,  decked  and  lighted  for  festival  and  filled  with 
white-faced  courtiers,  hallf-fainting  maids  of  honor, 
and  trembling  lackeys,  pages,  and  palace  hangers-on. 
Here,  notwithstanding  the  princess  has  whispered 
very  tender  words  to  him,  Diak  places  a  double  row  of 
sentries  outside  the  royal  doors,  Villiers  cautioning 
them  for  their  lives  not  to  let  the  lady  pass  from  her 
chambers.  Then,  knowing  a  trick  about  the  palace 
that  the  others  do  not,  the  troubadour  takes  a  ser- 
geant's guard  to  his  deserted  apartments  and,  placing 
them  in  his  little  bedroom,  orders :  "  Let  no  one  pass 
from  here." 

"No  one  pass  from  here!"  gasps  the  sergeant. 
"  How  could  they?  There  is  no  one  here!  " 

"  Begad,  ye  don't  know  the  trick  of  the  fairy  wall," 
cries  O'Bourke,  who  is  at  his  master's  side.  "  If  a 
pretty  ghost  or  two  comes  out  upon  ye,  bayonet  her 
on  the  spot." 

But  the  Irishman  does  not  wait  jabbering  long,  for 
his  master  has  rushed  away,  and,  finding  the  head  tire- 
woman of  the  princess,  he  says  to  her:  "  You  took  tht 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  253 

Lady  Metia  under  your  charge.  Show  me  where  she 
is!" 

The  voice  is  that  of  command,  and  the  woman,  obey- 
ing him,  leads  him  up  the  great  stairways  to  the  gar- 
rets above.  In  one  of  these,  under  lock  and  key  and 
strongly  bolted  in,  he  finds  the  pretty  maid  of  honor. 

"  You  have  won,"  whispers  the  girl  to  him,  wiping 
the  tears  from  her  red  eyes,  for  she  had  been  sobbing 
in  her  loneliness.  "She,  my  tyrant,  is  dead?" 

"  No,  but  she  is  no  longer  your  tyrant.  Come  with 
me." 

A  few  minutes  after  he  has  found  Lucia  in  the  gal- 
lery of  the  theater,  from  which  she  has  looked  upon  the 
strange  scene  below  her  with  a  curious  and  haughty 
indifference.  This  indifference  is  still  on  her  face  as 
she  turns  to  him. 

"  God  bless  you,"  he  whispers.    "  You  saved  me." 

But  she  answers  him  only :    "  Take  me  to  my  father." 

"  How  can  I,  when  Prince  Eugene's  army  has  not 
yet  entered  the  town.  Quick,  with  me  for  your  own 
safety.  I  must  see  you  are  secure  from  that  little 
royal  dlablesse! " 

With  this  he  takes  the  two  girls,  though  Lucia  shud- 
ders from  Metia,  and  putting  them  in  an  apartment, 
places  a  strong  guard  about  it,  and  commands :  "  Let 
no  one  enter  here,  for  your  lives,  men !  " 

All  this  has  not  taken  three  minutes.  Suddenly  there 
is  a  roar  of  artillery  from  the  bastion.  "  Great  heavens, 
they  have  opened  fire  upon  the  ducal  gardens!  "  cries 
Villiers. 

But  Teddy  says :  "  Diviliih  little  harm  they'll  do. 
We're  all  in  the  palace,  even  the  six  hundred  men  of 
Mansfield's.  They'll  only  kill  the  marble  Cupids  and 
Venuses  in  the  fountains! " 


154  THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

Springing  down  the  great  stairway  to  the  lower  floor, 
Villiers  finds  O'Bourke  is  right.  The  regiment  of 
Staremberg,  save  a  strong  guard  for  the  palace,  is 
formed  in  column;  behind  them  the  six  hundred  men  of 
Mansfield's  just  brought  in.  The  great  palace  gates, 
from  which  the  French  sentries  have  been  swept  away, 
are  thrown  open.  Down  the  main  street  they  go, 
straight  for  the  Concordia  gate. 

"  We'll  get  little  opposition;  their  officers  are  all  cap- 
tured. I  have  seventy  of  them  locked  up  under  guard 
in  the  big  dining-room,"  whispers  Diak  to  Villiers  as 
they  head  the  column. 

"  But  a  few  of  them  left  the  banquet  to  notify  the 
citadel  before  you  came.  Hark,  the  drums  are  beating 
in  that  stronghold.  Those  who  are  not  too  drunk  will 
come,  besides  the  four  hundred  men  at  the  Concordia 
gate. 

But  to  their  luck  they  meet  these  in  the  streets.  The 
guard  at  the  Concordia  gate  is  coming  up  to  charge 
the  palace.  This  makes  their  destruction  easy  for  the 
strong  column  of  Eugene's  infantry.  The  French 
and  Austrians  clash  together  in  front  of  the  great  cathe- 
dral, and  the  twelve  hundred  Austrians  make  short 
work  of  the  four  hundred  Frenchmen,  surprised,  con- 
fused, and  by  no  means  in  fighting  trim,  some  of  the 
princess's  wine  having  reached  even  them.  Jum- 
bled together  they  half  fight,  half  run  down  the  main 
street  to  the  Concordia  gate,  where  the  Austrians  en- 
ter its  portals  with  the  flying  French.  Here  the  Ger- 
man grenadiers  make  short  and  savage  work  of  the 
weak  guard  at  the  portals  and  about  the  walls;  bay- 
oneting those  that  resist  and  chasing  the  others  from 
the  works;  for  the  French  opposition  is  half-h?3rted 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  255 

now;  a  long  column  of  Eugene's  division  is  already 
thundering  at  the  outworks. 

Three  minutes  after  the  gates  are  opened  and  the 
regiments  of  Nigrelli  and  Bagni  come  pouring  in; 
behind  them  rides  Prince  Eugene  and  his  staff. 

"  We  have  got  the  palace  and  this  gate,  your  High- 
ness, all  but  some  other  portals  and  the  citadel,"  cries 
Diak,  saluting. 

"  Then,  Commerci,"  orders  his  highness,  to  that 
general,  as  he  rides  beside  him,  "  direct  Nigrelli,  with 
four  companies,  to  carry  the  Ferrara  gate.  Do  you 
yourself  take  the  rest  of  his  regiment  and  carry  the 
Modena.  Then  let  both  commands  converge  on  the 
citadel." 

And  that  prince  saluting  and  riding  off,  Eugene 
says,  anxiously :  "  Is  Villiers  alive  ?  " 

"  Yes,  your  Highness,"  calls  Sydney,  as  he  steps  to- 
ward his  general  and  salutes.  "  But  I  have  had  as 
tough  a  struggle  for  my  life  as  ever  man  had  and 
lived." 

"  Well,  I  have  had  many  a  close  intention  for  my 
life,"  says  the  fighting  prince,  "  and,  barring  a  stiff 
knee,  am  as  good  as  ever.  Egad,  you've  come  off  bet- 
ter than  me,  not  a  scratch  in  this  campaign.  But  you 
know  that  you  must  disappear  in  the  next  day  or  two; 
you  remember  the  Cremona  matter?  "  he  laughs.  But 
the  smile  leaves  Prince  Eugene's  face,  and  it  becomes 
stern  and  menacing  as  he  learns  from  his  two  officers 
how  Maria  of  Mirandola  would  have  given  to  death 
the  brave  men  introduced  almost  at  her  suggestion 
into  the  ducal  gardens. 

But  the  citadel  is  yet  to  be  captured,  the  other  gates 
secured,  and  the  town  policed,  and  Eugene  remarks 
shortly :  "  After  the  place  is  fully  ours,  I'll  see  her 


«56  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

treacherous  highness.  At  present,  gentlemen,  we  have 
other  work  to  do,"  for  the  sound  of  musketry  now 
comes  from  the  Modena  gate  toward  which  Commerci 
has  led  his  column.  But  this  does  not  last  long. 

With  the  Modena  and  the  Ferrara  gates  in  their 
hands,  some  half  hour  after,  they  demand  the  surrender 
of  the  citadel.  In  command  of  this  there  is  only  a 
young  lieutenant,  but  he  makes  a  gallant  fight,  though 
nearly  all  his  mea  are  drunk,  and  there  are  no  other 
officers  to  support  him.  The  outworks,  however,  are 
shortly  captured,  a  thing  quite  easy,  for  wine-soaked 
men  do  not  well  defend  a  half-ruined  battlement,  only 
the  fortifications  that  face  the  outer  country  having 
been  kept  in  repair.  Noting  this,  Eugene  sends  an 
honorable  offer  into  the  fort  by  flag  of  truce,  together 
with  a  notification  that  the  French  commandant,  De 
Vivans,  is  dead,  and  the  second  in  command  and  nearly 
all  the  officers  of  the  garrison  are  captured;  where- 
upon the  lieutenant  comes  under  the  same  flag  of  truce 
to  Eugene,  to  whom  he  says:  "  Your  Highness,  give 
me  your  royal  word  that  every  officer  of  this  garrison, 
save  me,  is  captured  or  dead,  and  I  perforce  must  ac- 
cept the  terms  you  offer,  which,  I  thank  your  High- 
ness, are  honorable." 

"You  have  my  word;  likewise  you  can  see  the 
swords  of  your  surrendered  chiefs,"  answers  the  Prince 
of  Savoy. 

And  an  orderly,  arranging  before  the  subaltern  some 
eighty  swords  of  honor,  he  bows  and  sighs:  "  That  is 
proof  sufficient,  your  Highness.  When  I  return  to  my 
works,  I'll  order  the  chamade  to  be  beaten  and  make 
surrender." 

Just  here  Villiers,  stepping  forward,  says  hastily: 
"  Your  Highness,  I  implore  for  this  gentleman  most> 


THE  FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  «57 

courteous  treatment.  He  was  my  second  last  night 
in  a  duel,  when  for  my  honor  I  fought  one  of  his  com- 
rades. He  has  drawn  blade  beside  me  to  save  the 
daughter  of  Sir  Andrew  Vesey  from  outrage.  He  is 
my  friend." 

He  extends  eagerly  toward  Ambrose  de  Terrail  his 
hand,  but  the  other,  looking  at  him,  shudders : 
"Diabie!  a  spy,  not  a  troubadour?" 

"A  captain,  no,  a  colonel,  in  the  armies  of  the  em- 
peror, monsieur  lileutenant.  I  introduce  you  to  Col- 
onel Villiers,"  says  Eugene  haughtily. 

But  the  Frenchman,  folding  his  arms,  murmurs :  "  I 
take  not  the  hand  of  a  spy,  even  though  he  were  a  gen- 
eral," and  makes  the  Englishman's  heart  sad  as  he 
turns  from  him. 

Five  minutes  after  Ambrose  de  Terrail,  the  ranking 
officer  of  the  French  garrison  of  Mirandola,  marches 
out  at  the  head  of  his  surrendered  men,  and  Eugene 
finds  in  the  citadel  things  that  are  of  great  use  to  him 
all  this  winter:  thirty-five  hundred  barrels  of  flour 
and  great  store  of  provisions  and  munitions  of  war,  all 
intended  for  the  garrisons  of  Louis  XIV.  south  of  the 
Po. 

But  Villiers,  looking  at  the  haughty  face  of  the 
,young  lieutenant,  who  gives  him  no  glance-  and 
'thinking  of  the  loved  one  that  he  has  lost,  feels, 
though  he  is  colonel  in  the  army  of  the  emperor,  that 
being  even  a  successful  spy  carries  with  it  pangs  he 
had  not  guessed  when  he  began  this  enterprise. 

This  night  the  officers  of  Prince  Eugene  make  ban- 
quet in  Maria's  palace  on  the  provisions  and  delicacies 
intended  for  De  Vivans's  officers,  and  drink  the  flow- 
ing Burgundy  from  the  refilled  and  battered  drinking 
horn  of  Benvenuto  Cellini,  and  the  hero  of  the  affair, 


«58  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

though  he  sits  in  the  post  of  honor  beside  his  great 
general,  is  not  a  happy  man. 

His  chief  says:  "  You  seem  sad  to-night,  my  col- 
onel." 

"  Yes,  your  Highness,"  answers  Villiers,  "  for  I  have, 
lost  a  gallant  friend,  and  I  fear  likewise  the  woman  of 
my  heart,  through  that  royal  diablesse  upstairs,  who 
has  already  sent  message  three  times  to  you  begging 
for  interview." 

"  Oh,  yes,  the  Princess  Maria,"  smiles  Eugene,  then 
whispers :  "  Tell  me  your  story." 

Whereupon,  in  low  tones,  the  Englishman  relates  to 
his  commander  the  wondrous  tale  of  the  pnncess  and 
the  troubadour. 

Listening,  Eugene's  brow  grows  very  black,  then  he 
suddenly  smiles:  "  Leave  it  in  my  hands;  though  they 
say  I  don't  love  the  fair  sex,  still  a  man  who  is  indiffer- 
ent to  their  charms  sometimes  has  more  influence  with 
them  than  those  who  worship  them.  As  regards  the 
daughter  of  Sir  Andrew  Vesey  and  the  pretty  Lady 
Metia,  who  tried  to  bring  warning  to  the  brave  men 
about  to  be  sacrificed  in  yonder  garden,  they  are,  of 
course,  under  my  protection  and  are  safe.  You,  I  be- 
lieve, are  the  guardian  of  your  affianced.  'Twere 
strange  if  the  power  of  one  who  has  her  in  his  hands 
should  not  weigh  something  with  her." 

"  You  don't  know  her,  sir.  Lucia  was  trust  itself, 
and  for  one  day  loved  me,  I  think,  very  greatly.  As 
such,  the  wound  at  my  suspected  untruth  to  her  is  all 
the  sharper.  By  the  arts  of  Bianca  Gonzaga  she  must 
liave  seen  me  in  the  princess's  chamber." 

"  Diable!  "  chuckles  his  highness,  "  did  you  for  mili- 
tary duty  go  to  the  last  ditch,  my  troubadour?  They  say 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  259 

the  princess  is  beautiful  as  a  fairy,  and  loves  very  ten- 
derly for  the  moment." 

"  Your  Highness,  by  the  blessing  of  God  and  a 
talisman,  that  has  been  taken  from  me,  I  was  saved." 

"And  the  fair  Lucia,  of  course,  doesn't  believe  it." 

"  No,  your  Highness,  she  never  will." 

"  Pish,  thou  dost  not  know  a  woman's  heart.  Thou 
hast  told  thy  tale  to  her?  " 

"  No,  only  to  declare  my  truth." 

"Ah,  yes,  but  play  upon  the  carrier  pigeons  that  I'd 
sent  to  Maria.  I'll  lay  down  your  opening  trenches 
for  you  before  the  lady's  scornful  heart,  then  you  after- 
ward shall  make  the  assault  in  person.  Dare  you  try 
it?" 

"  In  this  very  theater,  your  Highness,  I  faced  the 
swords  of  seventy  French  officers." 

"  Pish,  that's  not  as  hard  as  encountering  bright 

eyes.  I  know  it  myself — I Pest,  but  I'll  not  think 

of  that,"  mutters  the  prince,  who  everyone  knew  had 
loved  once,  and,  in  losing  one,  had  lost  forever  his 
love  of  all  women.  But  here  his  royal  highness 
remarks :  "  Don't  make  too  much  ado  over  the  Lady 
Metia.  Her  safety  shall  be  my  personal  attention.  But 
I  must  have  some  sleep  to-night  to  be  ready  for  my 
morning's  interview  with  the  Princess  Maria  and  her 
•  royal  father,  who,  I  hear,  has  just  had  another  fit  from 
indigestion  or  from  fright  at  the  racket  my  brave  fel- 
lows made  about  his  palace." 

So  his  highness  leaving  the  company,  Villiers  puts 
better  heart  into  his  face  and  quaffs  the  wine  of  mirth, 
laughing  once  at  Diak's  story  of  the  Irishman  who 
cannot  give  a  signal  except  he  has  the  selfsame  can- 
dles with  which  it  has  been  shown  to  him. 

"  Bedad,"  says  Teddy,  who  is  standing  behind  his 


260  THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

master,  engaged  in  bringing  wine  and  putting  a  little 
of  it  under  his  jacket  in  the  royal  pantry:  "  Would  yer 
excellencies  like  to  hear  a  better  story?  It's  of  the 
chamber  of  a  troubadour,  with  a  fairy  tripping  into  me 
through  the  walls.  Sure  an'  the  darlint  looked  as  if  she 
expected  to  meet  somebody  else.  She " 

But  Villiers  stops  the  fellow's  jabbering  by  crying: 
"  Enough  of  you,  sirrah,  for  to-night.  Take  this  bottle 
and  away  with  it.  But  see  you  report  to  me  sober  in 
the  morning,  or  the  provost  marshal  will  have  a  word 
with  you." 

"  Bedad,  yer  honor,  one  bottle  would  never  fell  an 
Irish  soldier,"  answers  O'Bourke,  and  goes  merrily 
away,  for  he  is  chinking  twenty  crowns  in  his  pocket 
from  the  military  chest  of  Prince  Eugene  for  bring- 
ing to  him  message  from  Mirandola.  He  has  also 
promise  from  the  Princess  Maria  of  a  hundred  louis 
in  case  of  the  success  of  the  affair,  and  feels  proud  as 
a  marquis;  but  these  last  he  never  receives,  the  royal 
lady  seeming  to  go  frantic  with  rage  when  a  day  or  two 
after  he  demands  them. 

"  By  the  bye,"  says  Diak,  stroking  his  long  mous- 
tachios  contemplatively,  "  as  commander  of  the  palace 
I've  assigned  myself  your  old  quarters,  Villiers.  Prince 
Eugene,  you  being  unattached  and  practically  on  his 
staff,  wishes  you  close  to  him." 

"  As  you  please,"  answers  the  Englishman.  Then 
after  one  searching  look  at  the  tall  dashing  soldier  of 
fortune,  he  remarks:  "  I  hope  you'll  find  my  little 
chamber  to  your  liking." 

Rising  early  the  next  morning,  for  Villiers  knows 
Eugene  is  not  a  man  to  let  the  grass  grow  under  his 
feet,  and  will  soon  march  out  of  Mirandola,  the  Eng- 
lishman goes  hurriedly  toward  the  rooms  occupied  by 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  261 

his  sweetheart  and  the  Lady  Metia.  He  is  now  in  full 
Imperial  uniform,  but  the  wine  having  passed  from  his 
head,  his  face  is  again  dejected,  he  once  more  doubts 
receiving  forgiveness  from  his  betrothed. 

In  the  great  corridor,  immediately  in  front  of  the 
royal  apartments,  before  which  sentries  are  still  pac- 
ing, showing  that  the  princess  is  yet  und^r  arrest, 
stands  La  Marchesa  di  Monteferrato,  whose  oeauty  is 
more  spirituelle  than  ever,  her  eyes  flashing  in  a  kind 
of  unholy  triumph  as  she  gazes  at  the  downcast  face 
of  the  passing  Englishman.  "  Though  I  have  not  his 
life,  I  have  destroyed  his  hope  of  love,"  she  thinks. 
"  Besides,  I  have  ruined  my  tyrant.  Maria's  father's 
dukedom  will  be  taken  from  him.  She  will  no  more  be 
a  princess." 

But  hardly  thinking  of  la  marchesa,  Villiers  passes 
quickly  to  the  apartments  occupied  by  his  sweetheart 
and  the  Lady  Metia.  Sentries  are  still  in  front  of  their 
doors,  showing  Prince  Eugene  has  not  forgotten  to 
take  very  good  care  of  these  young  ladies,  whom  their 
princess  hates. 

Passing  the  saluting  sentries,  Villiers  knocks  upon 
the  door.  It  is  opened  to  him  by  his  sweetheart.  As 
he  enters  the  room  Lucia's  face  and  dress  tell  him  she 
has  already  heard  she  is  an  orphan. 

"  You  know?  "  he  gasps. 

"  Of  my  poor  father's  murder?  Yes!  His  high- 
ness, Prince  Eugene,  an  hour  ago,  when  he  took 
the  Lady  Metia  from  me,  told  me  I  must  look  to  you 
for  direction  now,-  and  in  this  matter  I  pray  you  let  me 
enter  a  convent."  Then  she  breaks  forth  passionately: 
"  Oh,  why  did  you  not  tell  me  that  I  was  bereft  before? 
Fancy  my  wearing  only  a  night  ago  the  garb  of  gayety, 
when  my  dead  father's  murder  was  not  avenged." 


262  THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

This  speech  is  altogether  too  Italian  for  the  Eng- 
lishman. He  says  hastily:  "  Thy  father's  murder  must 
be  left  to  other  hands  than  yours.  You  are  an  Eng- 
lish girl.  As  such  I  mean  to  send  you  to  the  nearest 
relatives  of  your  father.  In  that  happy  country  you 
will  forget  the  sorrow  of  to-day,  and — and  even  the 
man  who  loves  you."  His  voice  is  broken,  to  him  has 
come  a  horrible  glimpse  of  the  imagination.  In  it  he 
sees  his  sv  eetheart  rich,  beautiful,  and  noble,  and  sur- 
rounded by  the  gay  beaux  and  dandies  of  St.  James's 
and  the  Mall.  To  her  he  falters:  "  Other  gallants  will 
woo  you.  You  are  too  young  to  think  of  aught  but  a 
happy  life." 

Then  even  in  his  misery  she  gives  him  comfort. 
"Other  gallants  will  never  woo  me!"  she  shudders: 
"  I've — I've  had  my  heart  broken  once.  That  is  enough 
for  me,  signore." 

"  Broken  once!  "  There  is  a  gloating  triumph  in  his 
voice;  then  he  pleads  sadly:  "  Let  me  who  wounded 
it  heal  it." 

But  she  turns  upon  him  almost  fiercely,  and  says: 
"  That  was  the  plea  of  Prince  Eugene  for  you.  He  said 
that  you  had  only  acted  as  a  gallant  soldier  would  in 
desperate  strait  to  save  the  lives  of  a  thousand  men 
that  she  would  doom  to  death  because  you  would  not 
debase  yourself  with  her.  If  that  is  the  duty  of  a  gal- 
lant soldier,!  pray  I  see  no  more  of  gallant  soldiers.  Be- 
sides, the  Lady  Metia  also  said  the  princess  hated  her 
because  you  had  whispered  love  into  her  ears  also.  Oh, 
don't  try  to  deny.  I  heard  her  words  with  suffering 
heart  last  night."  Then  Lucia's  glorious  eyes  blaze ; 
she  cries :  "  Oh,  who  would  think  that  you  would  have 
ill-treated  a  poor  girl  who  had  put  her  trust  in  you, 
who  was  your  betrothed,  who  gave  her  heart  to  you 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  263 

across  that  little  balcony  even  when  a  ruffian's  hands 
were  on  her,  when  she  bade  you  to  save  yourself,  not 
think  of  her.  And  you  forgot  her  in  a  day.  Oh,  God 
forgive  you ! " 

"  I  care  not  if  God  forgive  me,  if  you  do." 
•  "  Hush !  don't  blaspheme.  In  all  the  misery  of  Pas- 
quale's  sordid  house,  where  I,  his  bound  girl,  felt  like 
a  slave,  I  still  had  trust  in  God.  And  yet  I  was  happier 
there  than  now,  before  you  came  to  make  me  know  the 
happiness — I  mean  the  misery  of  love." 

"  By  heaven,  you  shall  also  know  its  happiness!  " 
whispers  Villiers,  who,  now  that  she  will  discuss  the 
matter  with  him,  feels  reviving  hope.  Especially  as 
instead  of  shuddering  from  him  Lucia  is  gazing  at 
him,  perchance  because  in  his  dashing  cavalry  uniform 
this  gentleman  looks  even  more  engaging  to  the  female 
eye  than  when  he  was  a  troubadour.  "  Did  Prince 
Eugene  tell  you,"  he  asks,  "  that  I  was  forced  by 
the  princess  to  send  the  carrier  pigeons  from  her  win- 
dow, where  she  kept  them,  that  if  I  did  not  the  affair 
for  which  I  risked  my  life  was  naught?  Did  he  tell 
you  I  would  never  have  been  his  spy  had  it  not  been 
in  hope  of  rescuing  you  from  your  bondage,  and  pre- 
vent them  putting  my  darling — for  I  loved  you  then,  I 
had  seen  your  picture — upon  the  public  stage  and 
making  you  an  outcast  to  the  courtly  world,  in  which, 
please  God,  now  duchesses  shall  envy  you  your  beauty 
and  distinction  ?  " 

"And  for  love  of  me  you  endured  the  danger  of  the 
hangman's  noose?" 

"  By  heaven,  I  did." 

"  For  love  of  me — of  my  poor  picture?  "  The  girl's 
eyes  are  growing  bright  through  all  their  tears. 

"Of  course,  I  did!" 


364  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

"  Then  swear  that  since  I  gave  my  word  to  you  you 
have  been  true  to  me." 

"  Again  I  do." 

"  And  though  that  devil  threatened  you  with 
death " — Lucia  is  calling  Maria  bad  names  now — 
"  you  would  not  give  her  my  picture.  I  remember 
that ;  even  as  my  heart  broke,  I  remember  that !"  Then 
she  astounds  this  man,  for  one  of  woman's  varying  pas- 
sions coming  over  her,  she  suddenly  hands  him  her  min- 
iature, and  commands:  "  Guard  it  again  for  me!  " 

"  You  mean " 

"  Oh,  I  am  weak  perhaps,  but  I  mean " 

She  gets  no  chance  to  say  what  she  means,  for  Vil- 
liers  remembers  that  ladies  grow  more  tender  at  the 
touch  of  wooers.  The  strong  arm  of  the  little  giant 
flies  about  her  pliant  waist.  Her  lips  are  closed  by 
his.  After  a  moment,  for  his  kiss  is  long,  he  whispers: 
"You  have  forgiven  me,  now  all  is  well!  Last  night 
in  sorrow  and  ashes  I  repented  I  had  been  Eugene's 
spy,  but  it  has  a  happier  ending.  Egad,  I'm  ready  to 
be  his  spy  again." 

At  this  there  is  a  piercing  shriek,  and  Lucia  now  is 
suppliant:  "  For  the  love  of  heaven,"  she  begs,  "  don't 
leave  me  desolate.  Think  how  I  would  suffer  with  your 
dear  neck  in  danger  of  the  cord."  She  is  on  her  knees 
to  him,  her  clinging  hands  clasp  his:  But  he  draws  her 
'to  his  breast  and  whispers :  "  There  is  one  way  to  keep 
me  from  the  adventure  of  Cremona." 

"  What  is  it,  my  dear  lord?  " 

"The  altar!" 

At  this  the  tears  are  burnt  out  of  her  eyes  by  fiery 
blushes.  "The  altar!" 

"  Yes,  and  within  a  day  or  two!  Dost  think  I  could 
desert  my  bride  after  enjoying  the  glories  of  her  love!  " 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  265 

"  O  Dio !  "  sighs  the  girl,  "  thou  art  very  master- 
ful !  "  and  is  as  wax  within  his  arms. 

Coming  from  this  interview,  Villiers  is  soon  after 
summoned  to  the  quarters  in  the  palace  that  Prince 
Eugene  occupies.  At  his  entry  Diak  and  another  offi- 
cer withdraw,  though  noting  Villiers's  face  as  he  passes 
him,  the  Swedish  colonel  pauses  and  laughs:  "  Diable, 
what  a  change  in  you  over  night.  You  have  now 
something  better  in  your  head  than  champagne,  my 
troubadour!  " 

A  moment  later  he  is  bowing  before  the  prince. 

To  him  his  general  says  affably:  "  I  have  made  ar- 
rangements for  the  Lady  Metia  to  be  forthwith  sent 
under  escort  to  my  emperor.  Letters  will  go  with  her 
that  will  insure  her  a  very  honorable  position  in  the 
court  of  Vienna.  I  have  charged  my  own  fortune  with 
her  maintenance  and  also  her  dower  as  the  daughter 
of  a  noble  house,  for  there  are  gallants  in  Austria — the 
child  is  beautiful,  and  doubtless  will  wed.  One  inter- 
view with  the  Princess  Maria — egad,  she  is  a  little 
witch,  and  would  have  made  love  to  me  had  I  been  soft 
as  the  troubadour,"  laughs  the  prince — "  showed  me 
that  Metia  is  not  safe  with  Maria  still  Princess  of 
Mirandola." 

"  Your  Highness  will  not  dethrone  her  father?  " 

"  Of  course  not.  The  Duke  Francesco  did  not  know 
his  daughter's  passions  were  going  to  make  ducks  and 
drakes  of  his  plans.  He  feared  the  French;  therefore 
he  made  Maria  his  emissary  to  me.  He  was  true 
enough.  Besides,  if  I  dethrone  one  Italian  prince, 
none  of  the  others  would  dare  open  their  gates  to  me. 
They'd  fear  I  might  dethrone  them  all.  No,  in  Italy 
we  want  allies,  not  enemies.  But  your  affair?  The 
young  lady — Lucia,  I  believe,  is  her  name — who  is  as 


266  THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

beautiful  as  any  demoiselle  I  have  ever  seen,  and  has  a 
voice  like  an  angel,  wishes  to  be  permitted  to  enter  a 
convent.  What  do  you,  as  her  guardian  and  as  her 
lover,  say  to  this?  " 

"  That  as  her  guardian  I  will  not  permit  it.  She 
is  of  a  fortune  so  great  in  England,  she  might  com- 
mand an  alliance  with  an  earl.  As  her  lover,  I  won't 
let  her  marry  an  earl,  because  I'll  marry  her  myself." 

"Ah,  the  carrier  pigeons  did  the  business,  eh?  " 

"  No,  your  Highness,  it  was  because  I  would  never 
give  her  picture  to  the  princess." 

"  Diable,  for  so  little  a  thing  as  that.  However,  wom- 
en are  very  curious.  But  I  have  another  adventure  for 
you,  my  prince  of  spies.  Every  French  officer  here 
will  be  kept  under  arrest,  so  none  will  ever  recognize 
you  to  denounce  you.  Within  a  week  you  must  be  in 
Cremona.  I  have  heard  from  there,  there  is'  a 
priest — 

Just  here  Villiers  astounds  his  highness.  He  points 
with  ringer  of  right  and  left  hand  toward  two  locks  of 
gray,  one  upon  either  temple,  and  says:  "  These  came 
from  being  spy  once !  "  then  snarls :  "  Now  no  man 
can  ever  call  me  boy  again.  But  I  have  enough  gray 
hairs  for  twenty-eight.  Command  me,  if  you  wish  my 
sword.  I'll  face  bullets  and  steel  for  you,  but  not  the 
noose.  Besides,  the  reason  that  I  wanted  to  be  spy 
was  to  win  a  face  that  I  had  learned  to  love  on  ivory. 
In  addendum,  your  Highness,  two  days  from  now  I 
wed." 

"  Diable! " 

"  Yes,  you  will  leave  Mirandola  shortly,  and  I  will 
make  Lucia  a  better  husband  than  a  guardian." 

"  You  have  the  consent  of  Lucia's  guardian?  " 


THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  267 

"  Yes,  I  gave  it  to  her  suitor  before  I  asked  the 
young  lady." 

At  this  both  gentlemen  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Well,  I'll  stand  up  with  you  at  your  wedding  and 
give  the  bride  away,"  says  Eugene  enthusiastically. 
"  Perhaps  from  the  ladies  of  honor  of  the  princess  the 
six  bridesmaids  may  be  culled,  eh?" 

"  But  her  highness  will  never  consent." 

"  Oh,  trust  me.  Maria  is  wax  in  Eugene's  hands  at 
present;  she  fears  to  lose  her  kingdom.  Besides,  she 
knows  that  you  are  gone,  and,  by  the  bye,  Paul  Diak  is 
favorite  now.  But  I  have  not  time  for  more."  His 
highness  sounds  a  hand  bell,  and  an  orderly  comes 
in.  To  him  he  says :  "  Ask  the  Prince  Commerci  to 
report  to  me  if  the  two  regiments  of  horse  I  ordered 
are  making  reconnoissance  toward  Modena."  A  second 
later,  that  gallant  leader  of  cavalry,  who  is  to  die  in 
the  next  campaign,  striding  in,  salutes  and  says: 
"  Your  Highness,  the  reconnoissance  is  already  made. 
There  are  no  French  troops  between  us  and  Modena." 

"  Then  I  can  stay  for  your  wedding,  my  boy.  Good- 
bye." 

And  Sydney,  passing  out,  in  the  anteroom  gives  a 
curious  look  at  Diak,  who  flashes  at  him  a  sardonical 
grin,  and  laughs:  "  You  missed  a  very  good  thing,  Vil- 
liers,  I'm  afraid." 

"  I  hope  you  found  your  quarters  pleasant  ones,  col- 
onel?" answers  the  troubadour. 

But  Villiers  cares  for  only  one  good  thing,  his  sweet- 
heart, whom  he  has  persuaded  that  under  the  circum- 
stances of  a  quick  campaign,  with  marching  troops, 
"her  best  safety  is  a  husband's  guidance ;  that  her  dead 
father  would  wish  to  know  that  she  had  a  husband's 
care.  In  fact,  he  has  laughed  to  her :  "  If  I  don't 


268  THE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR. 

claim  you,  I'm  afraid  Pasquale  will  under  his  bond  of 
apprenticeship." 

To  this  she  has  answered:  "Pish,  foolish  one,  I 
sang  my  first  and  last  high  note  in  a  theater  last  night, 
and  that  was  only  to  help  out  a  poor  troubadour,  who 
betwixt  ourselves  was  making  a  bungling  of  the  song 
of  Filicaria." 

So  word  of  these  nuptials  coming  to  the  Princess 
Maria's  pretty  ears,  that  sprightly  despot  claps  her 
hands,  and,  in  the  privacy  of  the  royal  chamber,  re- 
marks to  la  marchesa,  who  haughtily  is  in  attendance 
upon  her:  "  Bianca,  this  happy  news  seems  to  have 
made  your  dark  eyes  sad  and  drooping.  Since  yes- 
terday you  have  not  seemed  in  your  usual  buoyant 
spirits.  Is  it  because  that  night  you  hoped  I  would 
give  Eugene's  officer  to  the  French  and  so  ruin  my 
little  duchy?  Diavolo!  how  you  start  and  tremble!  " 

For  this  and  some  other  light  bantering  side , re- 
marks of  her  royal  mistress  seem  to  put  a  curious  dread 
into  the  fair  body  of  la  marchesa. 

With  this  Maria  sinks  laughingly  upon  a  seat,  and, 
looking  at  her  confidante,  into  whose  spirituelle  eyes  a 
flash  of  terror  has  flown,  she  says:  "Mi  bclla,  Tessa, 
the  ballet  mistress,  greatly  admired  your  superb  fig- 
ure as  you  strode  as  Juno  in  my  fete.  She  thinks,  with 
proper  training,  you'd  make  as  fine  a  figurante  as  ever 
flashed  her  limbs  before  the  footlights!  " 

"  Tessa,  the  ballet  mistress,  dare  to  admire  me  ?  "  re- 
plies Bianca  haughtily.  "  I  hardly  understand  your 
Highness !  " 

"No;  but  you  will!"  laughs  Maria,  clapping  her 
hands  in  a  kind  of  roguish  glee.  Then  her  voice  and 
eyes  become  menacing.  "  Now  that  Villiers  has  es- 


THE   FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR.  269 

caped  me,  the  question  is  what  shall  I  do  with  you !  "  she 
mutters. 

"  With  me,  your  Highness?  " 

"  Yes.  For  to  me  has  been  brought  the  knowledge 
that  you,  in  company  with  the  banker  St.  Croix,  of  Cre- 
mona, who,  fortunately  for  me,  is  not  within  my  hands, 
have  conspired  as  to  the  death  of  a  noble  English 
gentleman,  Sir  Andrew  Vesey." 

"  God  of  heaven,  your  Highness,  I  knew  naught  of 
his  death  till  afterward." 

"  Pish !  That  story  will  do  you  little  good,  when  I 
hold  the  letter  in  my  hands  that  says  you  were  to  pay 
twenty  louis  to  Umberto,  who  did  the  murder." 

"  The  letter!    I've  never  seen  it!" 

"  No,  for  Villiers  killed  the  bravo  who  was  to  take 
his  hire  from  you.  This,"  she  holds  the  paper  up, 
"  will  be  fine  reading  for  your  judges  if  I  appoint  a  trial 
for  you.  To  their  stern  questioning  in  the  torture 
chamber  you  will  shriek  out  a  different  story." 

"  God  of  mercy,  madame,"  shrieks  the  exquisite  mis- 
tress of  her  maids,  falling  on  her  knees  before  her  auto- 
crat, "  it  is  not  for  this  you  condemn  me;  'tis  because 
I  by  accident  left  Lucia  Vesey  in  that  little  dressing- 
room  to  hear  words  in  this  chamber  between  you  and 
your  troubadour." 

"  Aha,  you  confess  it.  I  made  a  shrewd  guess  at  it, 
however,  when  I  saw  in  a  room  unused  these  six 
months  an  embroidery  frame  half  broken  in  a  wom- 
an's agony  and  six  skeins  of  colored  wools  all  torn 
to  bits. 

"  But  with  my  usual  mercy  I  have  concluded  to  give 
you  choice  of  two  evils:  Trial  for  murder  before  the 
high  court  of  Mirandola.  You  will  guess  what  chance 
you  have  when  I  appoint  the  judges." 


370  THE    FIGHTING   TROUBADOUR. 

"  No,  no,  anything  but  that!  "  Bianca's  eyes  are  full 
of  tears,  and  she  is  kneeling  brokenly  before  her  mis- 
tress. 

"  Then  this  to  you,  since  you  accept  nay  mercy : 
Your  spurious  rank  is  taken  from  you,  for  you  are 
only  kin  by  courtesy  to  the  Duke  of  Mantua.  Be- 
sides, he  has  already  discarded  you.  After  proper 
and  severe  confinement  at  my  pleasure  I  shall  bind 
you  to  Tessa  Pasquale  to  be  taught  to  dance  for  me 
at  my  fetes ;  but  thou  shalt  not  have  the  privilege  of 
ladies  of  the  stage :  never  shall  gallant  make  love 
again  to  thy  false,  sweet  face,  for  when  not  dancing 
for  me  thou  shalt  be  kept  in  prison.  Who  says  that 
this  is  not  mercy  to  a  murderess  ?  Go,  I  am  tired  of 
you !  "  And  two  matrons  of  the  woman's  prison  of 
Mirandola  being  in  attendance  for  the  purpose,  the 
next  minute  the  haugkty  marchesa,  her  white  wrjsts 
tightly  bound,  is  being  conducted  in  a  closed  con- 
veyance to  the  stern  confinement,  cruel  stripes,  and 
all  the  other  luxuries  of  a  medieval  prison. 

But  Bianca  being  gone,  the  little  fairy  tyrant  tosses 
up  her  hands  and  sinks  down  sobbing  as  if  her  heart 
would  break ;  for  the  dashing  Diak  having  loved — will 
shortly  ride  away. 

Bianca's  fate  does  not  seem  to  make  Mirandola 
sad,  and  the  second  day  from  this,  in  the  private  chapel 
of  the  palace,  Lucia  and  Villiers  are  wed  quite  privately 
— some  maids  of  honor  standing  behind  their  comrade 
as  bridesmaids,  Eugene  himself  placing  the  bride's 
hand  within  the  groom's. 

The  Princess  Maria,  hanging  on  Diak's  arm,  looks 
on  quite  merrily:  "  Par  die,"  she  laughs,  "my  sweet 
Lucia  makes  a  pretty  bride.  This  from  my  royal  father 
and  myself! "  and  throws  over  the  bride's  fair  neck  a 


TtfE   FIGHTING  TROUBADOUR.  3"Jl 

circlet  of  glittering  diamonds,  for  she  wishes  to  please 
Eugene  of  Savoy,  in  whose  hands  she  knows  rests  the 
fate  of  her  haughty  little  self  and  her  small  dukedom. 

At  the  close  of  the  ceremony  the  great  general  re- 
marks as  he  salutes  the  bride:  "Thy  music  master, 
Pasquale,  my  child,  who  has  been  to  me  with  a  heart- 
breaking tale  of  ruin  at  the  loss  of  your  fair  services, 
says  that  thou  hast  the  loveliest  voice  in  Italy.  I  ride 
from  here  this  evening,  could  I  not  have  a  song  from 
you  to  cheer  me  on  my  way  ?  " 

"  If  you  will  deign  to  listen,  your  Highness.  Am  I 
not  the  wife  of  your  troubadour?"  answers  Lucia 
prettily. 

"Egad,  my  fighting  troubadour!"  laughs  Eugene. 
"  Sing  both  of  you  to  me  the  couplets  of  Filicaria,  only 
don't  brain  me,  Villiers,  as  you  did  poor  De  Vivans." 

"  Quick,  run  for  a  guitar,  Gianetta,"  cries  Maria  to 
her  pert  maid  of  honor. 

And  the  instrument  being  brought,  both  bride  and 
groom  raise  up  their  voices  in  melody  so  divine  that. 
its  like  was  never  heard  in  the  palace  of  Mirandola  be- 
fore nor  since. 

FiNIS, 


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